Esperanza Spalding, Jonathan Batiste @ Summerstage w/ pics

June 28, 2009

Two emerging young jazz players showcased their talents Sunday, in a hot and sunny afternoon performance at Central Park’s ongoing free Summerstage series. Opening the afternoon was 22-year-old Jonathan Batiste. From New Orleans, and enriched in its cultural soul, Batiste had a primary music education through his family’s Batiste Brothers Band, before coming of age with his 2005 debut, Times in New Orleans. Leading his own, youthful, ensemble Batiste was precocious and raw. Beginning his set on melodica, he strolled out to center stage with a trio of saxophones playing Monk’s “Round Midnight.” The melodica somehow lent the piece an increasingly romantic and nostalgic tone. But romance wasn’t on Mr. Batiste’s agenda. He ripped through some rowdier numbers including “New Orleans Blues Boy,” a song with a quick strong beat and contrapuntal lines that chased each other around like a cat and mouse, and then slowed things down for a Star Wars-themed dirge of sorts. The highlight of his set could have been a cover of, “Billie Jean”—complete with short black trousers, Jackson tour tee, and glittery scarf—but by this point the failed tunings of his youthful support where too overwhelming and distracting. A cover of “What a Wonderful World” eased the pain quite well, however, as Mr. Batiste proved himself a capable performer when cool and confidant.

At the formative age of 24, bassist and vocalist Esperanza Spalding seems destined for great things as her playing and career gain speed. In May she played Michele Obama’s “Poetry, Music and Spoken Word” event held at the White House, performing Lauryn Hill’s “Tell Him.” Ms. Hill’s commanding voice and multifarious sound are an apt comparison for Spalding’s immense talents. Sunday she quickly immersed the crowd in her eclectic mix of tropics and jazz over stirring vocals. Introducing herself and her agenda, she cooed about soul, jazz’s compelling need for it, and how what she was going to do that afternoon to help. Throughout her set she switched styles and instruments, between an augmented upright acoustic bass and electric one, such that her dynamic playing matched only the energy in her whimsically virtuosic voice. It was capable of restrained relaxed laments, or pyrotechnic scats that jumped out from inside her. Depending on the mood her voice either dripped delicately or flowed in powerful torrents. Her deft quartet matched her every step, providing a cerebral but flexible accompaniment on drums, piano and electric guitar. Spalding’s set consisted mostly of faster paced repertory like, “She Got to You.” This particularly suited her drummer, whose lightness elevated the group’s sound to match Spalding’s powerful vocals. After finishing her set the crowd was emphatic about getting her back onstage and Spalding naturally obliged, though it was clearly a genuinely earnest gesture. For her encore she got the crowd to sing the chorus on “I Adore You,” carrying it all the way to her graceful exit.

In Memoria: Michael Jackson 1958-2009

The early nineties were a difficult time to develop as a Michael Jackson fan. Bubbles, copious plastic surgery and Neverland Ranch magnified his spectacle while diverting from his talents. Grunge and flannel were becoming the popular standard—that is if Kriss Kross weren’t at the top of one’s list—and amongst my peers Super Bowl XXVII the game became more important than Michael the half-time show.

I was undeterred, however. I’d heard so much of this man, glimpsed the outrageous headlines in the checkout aisle, and jumped around joyously to his music even. It’s predictable that I remember nothing of the actual match—it turns out most of the country didn’t either. What I distinctly remember was the incredible sense of awe I felt when Michael took the stage. I was totally captivated. He struck such a defiant opening pose I was intimidated by the man. But I was quickly enthralled by his assertive leg kicks and supernatural twists and turns; his aggressive bandolier styling; the white collared shirt transformed into an immortal cape; the thrusting pelvis, convincing me of man’s rhythmic center. I was being confronted by this unshakable beat and ethereal image of masculinity and sensitivity that was cool. Dancing became cool. Before then dancing was for my sisters but now his music was making me want to dance.

Of course I had heard “Billie Jean” and “Black or White,” and loved their alluring bass line and dynamic guitar, but I hadn’t seen them, experienced them. The moonwalk, debuted a decade ago, was still something of a myth in my young head. But finally I witnessed it. His transcendent and transformative dance steps totally redefined my view of the art. And the crotch grab? It was there too. I ate up the iconic moves, his larger-than-life persona and the preternatural ease with which it was all delivered and felt an immediate need to share my catharsis. How could anyone I knew not fall in love with it? Even my immigrant parents—who were once wooed by Elvis’ baritone and pelvis—showed intrigue.

Managing to capture half of the 13-minute performance on my VCR, I was convinced my class would be equally amazed. So the next day, unsolicited, I brought the videotape to school to share the abridged experience. But strangely only a small fraction of my peers chose to stay inside during the snowy lunch recess to watch my recording. Why wasn’t everyone totally mesmerized by his performance? Didn’t everyone want to relive it over and over? I most definitely did.

Days after Michael’s passing, I feel similar. While I nurture my unbridled enthusiasm for Off The Wall, Destiny and anything imprinted with his talent, others gape at the manic devotion to a manufactured idol and simply don’t get it. Because my older, and wiser, sisters sat with me in choreographic awe during that half-time show did I really get how incredible Michael was. It’s the reason why my fondest Super Bowl experience has nothing to do with sports. Walking around New York City last Thursday, hearing his songs reverberate from every street-corner and bar, I relished the tacit community his music created amongst us. It’s only after his quintessentially American tragedy that we’ll begin to understand the invaluable cultural contributions he made to our society—while his descent takes on mythic proportions.

Miike Snow, the Maccabees @ Mercury Lounge w/ pics

June 22, 2009


Miike Snow is not an individual but a pseudo-supergroup of behind-the-scenes producers and songwriters, Bloodshy & Avant and Downtown Records in-house guru Andrew Wyatt. Though each is best known for pulling the strings on Madonna or Britney records, under Wyatt’s effects-laden vocals they coalesce into affable melodies and synthesizer shaped beats. At the Mercury Lounge’s intimate brick confines the group (backed by three additional musicians playing various samplers and synthesizers) still managed to eschew the spotlight, practically playing in the dark much of the time. Unfortunately the dance party intentions of their record weren’t promulgated clearly enough, so much of the brief 45 minute set was devoid of any stimulus that could match their catchy jams—or the Maccabees’ opening set. They opened with “Burial” and cruised through other hummable tracks, like their single “Animal,” “Silvia,” and “Plastic Jungle.” Canceling an earlier performance at Studio B, the group seemed to still be working out their stage dynamics and roles as performers. Not performing an encore made sense. The energy never quite evolved and the group still needs to perfect the art of working a live crowd. Hopefully Miike Snow’s hooky debut record won’t be their last.

the Maccabees


Miike Snow...