Categories
Music Music Features

Elastic Man

Curiosity doesn’t kill hepcats; it’s what makes ’em hep. Slang aside, good musicians are always seeking new sustenance for their fertile minds, exploring and then transmuting it.

So it is with the greats of jazz. And versatile saxophonist Joshua Redman, son of the noted avant-garde sax man Dewey Redman, does them proud with his increasingly personal and probing approach, which is best exemplified on his newest album, the aptly titled Elastic.

On Elastic, his eighth studio release, Harvard-grad Redman teams with keyboardist Sam Yahel and drummer Brian Blade, with additional percussion from Bashiri Johnson, to create an album that springboards from jazz into funk and soul, sometimes effortlessly combining the three forms. Redman’s is obviously a gentle spirit that sometimes likes to get a little saucy, but the man can really blow when he wants to. Though subtle in their interplay, the primary performers Redman, Yahel, and Blades throw around some sweet improvisation, honoring the spirit of the compositions while tweaking them melodically and assuming a variety of styles in their respective solos.

Standouts on Elastic include the stuttering, hyper “Jazz Crimes,” the Yahel-penned “Oumou,” which starts off like a modal Thelonious Monk tune before running off into joyful alto-sax lines, and the bipolar “Still Pushin’ That Rock,” the longest and strongest Redman composition of the bunch. The latter’s spirited blowing is a welcome wind-out in an album full of more soulful, gospel-like tunes such as “Can a Good Thing Last Forever?” and “Unknowing.” It’s possibly the strongest showing to date from the “accidental” musician, who only took the possibility of a career in jazz seriously when, much to his surprise, he won the 1991 Thelonious Monk jazz competition.

Redman recently took the time to give an interview from Seattle, where he had a gig later that night.

Flyer: Your father [Dewey Redman] is rightfully considered one of the great avant-garde tenor-sax men, especially for his time with the excellent Ornette Coleman Quartet from ’67 to ’74. But he wasn’t around when you were growing up. Yet you, who might have pursued medicine or law, became a tenor-sax man as well. Did your father’s absence imbue the life of the jazz musician with some kind of decisive allure?

Redman: A psychoanalyst would have a field day with my subconscious on this one, but I’ll try to answer with the way I consciously feel. I grew up with my dad’s music, had all his records — all the recordings with Ornette. But I grew up with all kinds of music and had a love for it, an affinity. My mother is a music lover.

I never seriously considered being a professional musician — music being the focus of my life — until I went to New York 10 years ago. Life as a musician was never something that had a great allure. I never thought I was talented. Of course, when I graduated from Harvard, things happened unexpectedly, and I was faced with the opportunity to become a serious musician. But I never thought about pursuing it.

I don’t think I picked up the sax because of my father. It was just the instrument. The tenor sax, especially, has such a wide range of emotional expression. It can be strong, powerful, and authoritative yet sweet and tender. It’s all in the tone, the texture, the technique.

What musical styles do you see feeding into and shaping jazz toward mid-century? And what do you have to say to those who don’t think you’re enough of an innovator, even though you employ disjunct rhythm, free improvisation, whiplash changes, et cetera?

Now, jazz is becoming more open, less dogmatic and ideological. Musicians are feeling freer to explore all styles and forms, as opposed to the recent period of traditional conservatism, in which musicians were returning to the classic language of acoustic jazz. Musicians don’t need to be as concerned with “stylism” and the specific political associations of a style. It’s more free expression, drawing from jazz and outside it.

As far as people saying I’m not an innovator, I believe everyone is entitled to their own opinion. I speak through my music, which, I feel, is becoming more and more my own and more original. But I can’t be the judge. I hear musicians losing the soul, trying too hard. All you can do as a musician is find honest ways to express yourself.

Who are your two greatest influences on the sax?

Sonny Rollins is definitely the greatest. It wasn’t until I heard Sonny that I understood what jazz improvisation could be: structured yet logical, meaningful yet spontaneous, immediate. It’s his vocabulary, his sense of swing, rhythm, and time.

After Sonny comes John Coltrane, who is just a model for creative dedication. He was the ultimate artist in many ways, constantly striving to enhance his sound, never resting, always struggling. Total conviction and passion and intensity.

I hear an increased complexity and lack of derivation in the compositions on your new album, Elastic. Is this just a natural progression or have you been focusing on a new direction while remaining highly melodic?

It’s natural. Any evolution has to come from a natural place, otherwise it won’t be honest and have deep, lasting meaning. The story lies in the melody. I’m trying to tell a story. The melody is the narrative. The rest is the setting, the details …

Do you encounter many other Harvard-educated jazz musicians?

More than you would think. I’ve played with several. …

Would you like to comment on Elastic?

I’m very happy with and proud of this album. But I’m never satisfied. It leads to complacency. I think I struck a balance on Elastic — to play the groove under a range of sound and instruments but to play that music without sacrificing spontaneity.

Joshua Redman

7 p.m. and 9:30 p.m.

Monday, October 21st

The New Daisy Theatre

Categories
Film Features Film/TV

Comical

It long last, Marvel Comics impresarios Stan Lee and Steve Ditko’s modern myth has made it to the movies: Spider-Man luckily arrives at a time when filmmakers can do justice to its impossible and iconic imagery. Recent advancements in computer animation were obviously necessary to create a believable — or, at least, not laughable — model of the original comic book’s action. Spider-Man first appeared in Amazing Fantasy in 1962, and the intervening 40 years were needed in order for Hollywood’s special-effects wizards to catch up with Ditko’s imagination, making 2002 the earliest possible time to make this movie right. Or try to make it right.

One thing Spider-Man has going for it is impeccable casting. Director Sam Raimi (The Evil Dead, Darkman, A Simple Plan) did well to fight for his choices for the central characters. Tobey Maguire is indeed a surprisingly good fit for Peter Parker aka Spider-Man, the unassuming teenager who gets bitten by a genetically engineered “superspider” (a Noughts twist on the comic’s irradiated spider). Kirsten Dunst is sexy and sweetly sincere as Peter’s longtime crush and girl next door Mary Jane Watson. And Willem Dafoe is positively perfectly sinister as Norman Osborn aka the Green Goblin. The chemistry between Maguire and Dunst, the spot-on Jekyll-and-Hyde performance by Dafoe, and James Franco’s turn as Peter’s best friend and Osborn’s son Harry serve to fill out the somewhat wanting script.

A retrofitted amalgamation of several story lines from the Silver Age Amazing Spider-Man comics of the ’60s, David Koepp’s screenplay provides a souped-up origin and maturation for Peter: Within two days of gaining his powers (great strength, the ability to adhere to most surfaces, a sixth sense, natural webs — unlike the comic’s chemical contraptions — spun from the wrists, of all places) and figuring them out, Peter loses his Uncle Ben, who is murdered by a thief whom Peter allows to escape. This is, of course, before Spider-Man’s crime-fighting conscience comes into being. It is also the impetus for that change. But the thief just happens to rob a wrestling promoter who has just swindled Peter out of $3,000, which he was to win for defeating pro wrestler Bone Saw McGraw (hilariously played by ex-Memphian “Macho Man” Randy Savage), and Peter gladly lets him pass, unwittingly dooming his uncle to die.

Soon Spider-Man appears in full regalia, dropping from the skies to thwart injustice time and time again. Thankfully, Raimi has honored and hewn closely to the panels of the comic for the film’s general mise-en-scène. We see the first unforgettable images of Spider-Man jump from the panels of the comic book. Imaginative camera angles abound, though not to the point of inducing nausea. In the great scene in which Peter discovers his wall-crawling ability in a shadowy alley, we watch him through a spider’s web spun high between the coils of a razor-wire fence. Missing, though, are some of the more iconic web-swinging acrobatics for which Spidey is known; what with the superhuman strength and all, he’s supposed to be able to easily defy gravity and contort himself into any and all the stylized positions dreamed up by his illustrators over the years. Oh, well, I guess computer animation can only do so much.

As for the plot, much of the pleasure derived from it is in the simple discourse between Peter and Mary Jane, whom he so shyly pines for. The story is straightforward and a little comic-book campy at times. Maguire falters in his voice-over at the film’s beginning, rendering his lines somewhat apprehensively and with odd inflection. Dunst shines throughout. But it is Dafoe who steals the show. In possibly the film’s greatest moment, he grapples with his dual nature in a mirror, shifting seamlessly from the dark madness of the Goblin to the stammering, uncomprehending scientist and father Osborn, his expressive face in the end twisting into the dominant visage of the Goblin.

The plot, though, seems merely a means to exhibit the cool costumes (though Spidey’s is vintage, the Goblin’s is not) and sometimes delirious action sequences, but Raimi has worked very hard to bring the characters to life, and the film is much better for it. Fleshing out characters is more important in the long run, though the plot could have used some tricks to break up the A-B-C story line. Viewers may want more than the origin of both Spider-Man and the Green Goblin and the battle to the end between them, but this time around, it’s what you get.

The most troubling aspect of the film is in its translation from the comic book. In the comics, there is always an informative inner monologue floating above each character’s head, yet the film does little to fill in the gaps. In the comics, people are flabbergasted and talk excitedly about the amazing, otherworldly things they see: superhumans in colorful tights, close calls with death, etc. The film treats it all like a walk in the park in a world where anything can happen and does quite frequently. And Spider-Man, as he goes about his heroic deeds, comes off as omniscient, whereas the comic always makes a logical progression from tingling spider sense to a good idea of what’s happening to intervention. Is it Raimi’s idea of a new, improved spider sense, or is it sloppy scripting?

As with most films, missteps of detail and inconsistencies in logic are revealed upon repeated viewing. But this is a comic book. So who really cares? Well, not me, not really. I complain as a fan who wants it perfect. It ain’t, but I still loved every minute of it.

Categories
We Recommend We Recommend

Beatles For Sale

So you’re 17 years old, you’re all duded up in your lucky 4-year-old bar mitzvah suit, and you’ve finally arrived at Shea Stadium in New York City, having just stepped off a Greyhound bus out of Baltimore. With two ancient cameras and two empty camera bags already hanging from your neck, you dig out your fake press pass and add it to the mess before you pass through the gates, ticket in hand. You’re here to see the Beatles, but you won’t be dutifully making your way to the seat specified on your ticket stub. Nope. You wade through the crowd of squealing jerks, take the stairs to the lower concourse, naturally, and work a dozen or so doors before you stumble into a locker room full of New York City cops.

And on that Sunday, August 15, 1965, Marc Weinstein kept his cool. As the cops grimaced, he heard himself speaking to the closest one in a British accent even faker than his press pass: “Excuse me, sir. I’m with the Beatles’ entourage and I got separated from the group. Would you take me to the stage, please?”

Weinstein’s exhibition of the photos he took that night, “The Beatles @ Shea ’65,” is currently on view at Soho, 517 South Main.

So, needless to say, the cop bought it. “Sure. Follow me,” he said, escorting Weinstein to the grassy playing field. And as the lone kid began to make his way toward the stage at second base to join the legitimate stage crew, some of the 55,000 ravenous fans must have mistook him for Ringo, what with the big nose and all, because they let out a roar, though it soon fizzled. “I was electrified,” says Weinstein, now a retired photojournalist living in Yuba City, California. “It’s a moment frozen forever in my mind.”

And frozen forever in time are the Beatles that day as captured on film by Weinstein: In the collection’s signature piece, it looks as if a song has just ended and John, standing at his organ and laughing, turns to an unabashedly grinning George, whose guitar must still be reverberating with the last note; in another, Paul, knees bent in either a nod to Chuck Berry or absolute ecstasy, points his bass to the sky. These are only two of the countless photos Weinstein took that day, classic at first glance, yet they’ve never been seen before, never been disseminated throughout the pop culture landscape the Beatles strode so mightily. Why?

“That’s the primary question posed to me,” says Weinstein. “There were several factors which kept these images in the dark. First, before I met my partner, Ronna Zinn, no one I showed them to over the years really took enough interest in the photos to pick up the ball. Second, the Beatles nostalgia didn’t seem to mature until the Baby Boomers did. But now I’m able to protect the images and enhance their quality in a manner that would have been impossible 10 or 20 years ago.”

After he made it to the stage on that warm August night almost 37 years ago, Weinstein could barely contain his excitement enough to keep his head, but previous experience photographing the Fab Four and other seminal bands at shows he had attended in Baltimore the year before prepared him. “By that time, I had also photographed the Rolling Stones, the Dave Clark Five, and many others,” says Weinstein. “I had perfected my ‘method of operation’: Get there very early, wear a suit, and act like you belong.”

It must have come easy, because Weinstein’s photos attest to a seasoned hand. As the Beatles hit the stage and went into an appropriately wild rendition of “Twist and Shout” to jump-start the show, the crowd went bananas and Weinstein began circling the stage, nailing great shots and managing to get eye contact even from camera-wary George. “At one point,” Weinstein recalls, “the Beatles’ staff photographer, Robert Whitaker, ran out of film, and I actually gave him one of my rolls. I only did it to possibly make a future connection with the Beatles. A couple of weeks later, I sent some shots to Whitaker, reminding him of who I was. Instead of hearing back from him, I received a letter from Tony Barrow, the Beatles’ publicist, and some ‘autographed’ photos of the boys.”

Figures. But no matter — Weinstein walked away that day with the seeds of a world-class collection coiled up in film canisters. He currently works from home organizing exhibitions of his photographs and selling them over the Internet, while partner Zinn is busy marketing the collection here in Memphis. Besides opening an office in the U.K. for European sales, Weinstein and Zinn plan to take “The Beatles @ Shea ’65” to the 2002 International Dutch Beatles Convention in the Netherlands. The collection is tentatively scheduled to remain at Soho through March. On February 25th, the gallery and boutique will host a party in honor of George Harrison’s birthday. For details, call Soho at 521-0999. To view select images of the collection online, go to www.allBeatles.net.

Categories
Book Features Books

Dogwalkers, Unite!

Dogwalker

By Arthur Bradford

Knopf, 144 pp., $20

Arthur Bradford’s story “Catface” first appeared in
Cornell University’s journal Epoch in the spring of 1996. Bradford, who
was a Stegner Fellow at Stanford University at the time, gained something of
an underground following soon afterward.

“Catface” is a mesmeric first-person narrative that
begins, “The disability payments were being cut down since, according to
their doctor, I was getting better.” Upon reading that first line, you
know that here is a humorous voice from left field, perfect for the times, and
the story is sure to be a sort of paean to slackerdom and modern neuroses. It
is indeed that and more. “Catface” won an O. Henry Award in 1996,
and now, five years after its initial publication, it joins 11 other stories
by Arthur Bradford in his long-awaited debut collection, Dogwalker.

The hilarious “Catface,” which opens the collection, is
a tour de force work of fiction on the brink of absurdism. The nameless,
passive narrator wanders through a seemingly timeless world where
responsibility has faded or been worn away, the beleaguered are doomed to
always cross paths with the merely hapless, and the only way to come out of it
all still intact is to remain serenely dumbfounded and imperturbably cool. The
narrator is just that as he, having been out of work for months, goes about
the task of securing a roommate to split the cost of his studio apartment. The
first is Thurber, a kleptomaniac and destroyer of potted plants who snores
loudly. Asked to find another place to live, Thurber packs up his things (and
some of the narrator’s) and leaves amiably enough. The second seems to be
unaware that she is a hooker, and the third stays for only three days — let’s
just say his past catches up with him. And then comes Jimmy. He sets up a tent
as his room and arranges for Thurber, who’s been coming back around, to get
beaten up. This incident sets off a sequence of mishaps, odd voodoolike
ceremonies, and fateful chance meetings with the grotesquely lovable that make
the story one of the funniest and most imaginative to appear in the Nineties.
As for the rest of the stories in Dogwalker, some deliver on the
promise of “Catface” while others are pleasing but not of the same
you’ve-got-to-read-this caliber. Particularly fun are “Bill McQuill”
and “Dogs.”

Bradford seems to have simultaneously lucked onto the Raymond
Carver and Franz Kafka crowd. With his deliberately simple, charmed prose (a
la Carver) and the surreal elements that make up his stories (a la Kafka), he
walks what many consider to be new fictional ground. But such reactions are a
bit myopic. Like the Jews of antiquity, today’s readers of literary fiction
seem to always be desperately searching for a savior, a jinni of the written
word, a reincarnated hero of the past: Though Bradford does not necessarily
call either to mind, William Faulkner and Flannery O’Connor are the two old
heroes most popular in the South. (Very prevalent these days are harebrained
reviews touting some mediocre, excruciatingly melodramatic author as a new
version of one or a metaphysically colluded symbiosis of both of those
arguably irreplaceable writers.)

Bradford is very good and very funny, but he is most definitely
not, as David Sedaris has opined, “the most outlandish and energetic
writer” (Thomas Pynchon is still and will probably always be the reigning
champ of madness and absolute cerebral muscle).

So by all means rush out and buy Dogwalker but don’t do it
expecting to save your reader’s soul. Do it because it’s great fun. You can be
sure of this. Do it because you love Nikolai Gogol’s “The Nose” and
William Kotzwinkle’s The Fan Man and Kafka’s “A Hunger
Artist” and William Gass’ In the Heart of the Heart of the Country
and Denis Johnson’s Jesus’ Son and Laurence Sterne’s The Life and
Opinions of Tristram Shandy
and Kurt Vonnegut’s “Welcome to the
Monkey House” and Donald Barthelme’s “Indian Uprising.” What’s
that? You haven’t read them all? Well, that’s understandable. Those are just
some of the former saviors of fiction. — Jeremy Spencer

All For Love

By Ved Mehta

Thunder’s Mouth Press/Nation Books, 345 pp., $24.95

Somewhere inside two years of psychotherapy followed by two years
of psychoanalysis Ved Mehta said to his Park Avenue doctor, “You can’t
imagine the amount of reading and writing I have to get through in a
day.”

He was right. His doctor couldn’t imagine it, because, strictly
speaking, Mehta neither reads nor writes. He’s normally read to by and
dictates to an amanuensis (Mehta’s word of choice) because he’s blind and has
been since meningitis knocked out his eyesight, age 4, in his native India.
But he doesn’t want you to think of him as blind, doesn’t want to think of
himself as blind, and in All For Love, book nine in Mehta’s continuing
series of autobiographical writings, “Continents of Exile,” didn’t
want his girlfriends thinking so either. In fact, he made it a precondition of
loving them that they not think so at all. What kind of woman would date a
man, live with a man, get pregnant by him, engaged to him, and not once
mention the fact the man couldn’t see? Four kinds and in this order, according
to the four women described in this book: a prima ballerina, a jobless
neurotic, a total ingrate, and a borderline psychotic.

Girlfriend #1, the ballerina, 1962: Gigi dances for the
Metropolitan Opera Ballet Company, things between her and Mehta are going
great guns. Then Gigi brings up ex-boyfriend David in Switzerland, then Mehta
goes impotent, then Gigi tells Mehta, “I am utterly fascinated by you. My
feelings for you are profound.” Then David suddenly shows up from
Switzerland, Gigi agrees to marry him, and Gigi calls Mehta at work at The
New Yorker
to break the bad news. Mehta goes to “the loo” and
sits in a stall. Then he worries that his amanuensis is wondering where he is.
Then he wonders if this same amanuensis knows she’s just witnessed one of the
“worst shocks” he’s ever received. In 1994 Mehta calls Gigi:
“There was never a chance that things could have worked out with us, was
there?” Gigi, the soul of tact: “No, there was never any
chance.”

Girlfriend #2, the neurotic, 1963: Mehta runs into unemployed
Vanessa, from his Oxford days, on the street in New York. Immediate sexual
fireworks, if and when she isn’t jumping out of bed in the middle of the night
to walk a dog, which apparently needs a lot of walking. Already sounds fishy,
but it gets worse. While Mehta is in London, Vanessa’s hooking up with a
waiter in Little Italy. Mehta’s “irritated.” Vanessa and the waiter
marry, Vanessa goes into “deep” psychoanalysis (to deal with
“her feelings of pain and chaos”). Then Vanessa comes into a
“substantial” inheritance. Then Vanessa takes up with a Hindu guru.
In a letter to Mehta in 1999 Vanessa finally described to him “the dog-
sitting situation.” Conclusion: Although Mehta and Vanessa had
“shared a bed,” at a “deeper level” he “had not known
her at all.”

Girlfriend #3, the ingrate, 1966: Lola is Mehta’s perfect
amanuensis: quick-thinking, hard-working, half-Punjabi (Mehta is full
Punjabi), and, what’s more, they share the same birthday! They travel India
for a book Mehta is researching, get it on immediately. Mehta returns to New
York, Lola has an awful lot of trouble joining him. Lola hooks up with a
record-store clerk named Gus, Lola gets pregnant by Gus, Lola gets an
abortion, Lola moves to New York, Lola sets up house with Mehta, Lola leaves
New York to join Gus in London (to get him “out of [her] system”;
Mehta pays for the trip). Then Mehta joins Lola in London, Mehta takes Lola to
Spain, Lola gets pregnant by Mehta, Lola gets another abortion, the second in
10 months, etcetera and whatever. Lola ends up in New Delhi as head of a
string of shops called the Denim Depot, but the latest Mehta heard Lola has
taken up with a “holy woman.” As for Gus? He dead.

Girlfriend #4, the borderline psychotic, 1968: Mehta, now 35,
falls for Kilty (for Katherine): 24, a native New Yorker, a poet, a grad
student in English at Yale, and, you guessed it, a walking basket case. Poor
Mehta. When Kilty isn’t babytalking, isn’t adoring Mehta, isn’t hating Mehta,
she’s complaining of “demons,” getting pregnant by her (ex-
?)boyfriend Coby (a case and a half himself), having a D&C, and seeing a
shrink in Scarsdale. Poor shrink. After six months, he pronounces Kilty
“unanalyzable.” You will, after a few pages of Kilty, have already
pronounced her unbearable. The latest update: No news is good news.

Which brings us back to the Park Avenue doctor above, Mehta’s own
shrink, who forces the author, over the course of some 400 hours of therapy
whittled down to some 70 pages of transcripted sessions at the close of All
For Love
— sessions recalled word-for-word by Mehta? recorded word-for-
word by his trusty amanuensis? did the good doctor know his own remarks were
being recorded? how did this make the good doctor feel? — to maybe give some
thought to certain features of Mehta’s psyche it doesn’t take an analyst to
uncover: that Mehta is a “Milquetoast” and “masochist” and
clearly caught up in the classic Oedipus complex. Other conclusions I’ll leave
in the hands of a professional because only a professional could come up with
them, the chief being that Mehta is unknowingly “projecting” the
doctor into the role of his “fifth lover.” The clue: The author and
analyst used the same laundry! “It’s going to sound silly to you,”
Dr. Bak tells his uncomprehending analysand, “but … unconsciously you
wanted your underpants to be washed with my underpants.”

Yeah, it sounds silly because it is silly, but Mehta’s life since
sounds nifty: a happy marriage and two children. Check future installments of
“Continents of Exile,” as written by (dictated by) Ved Mehta, on the
off-chance more comes out in the wash. — Leonard Gill