Nels Cline - New Monastery

Genre jazz Publisher Cryptogramophone External Links Official Nels Cline Website Official Cryptogramophone Records Website

Modern jazz is very similar to modern art. I can see the technical skill, I understand the desire to build outside of the normal, conventional structures, and if I wedge my finger inside, crack it open, and conjure up a personal response, I can find a valid message. But that message too often seems formulated by the listener, not the artist. In addition, I can't help but feel that pretension drives the whole monster. So bear with me while I sift through the cacophony of Nels Cline's New Monastery and try to make sense of it. [Warning: If you read this, swirl your snifter of brandy from your easy-chair by the fire, and guffaw that I'm not cultured enough to appreciate jazz, I'll bust you right in the monocle.] Having grown up on Brubeck's innovative time signatures and Sphere Monk's magical off-beat percussion piano, I hold jazz in serious regard. But, as with many others, there's something about free-form jazz that leaves me cold. But I'm more than willing to dive in and interpret what I can. Come along, and let's have a look.

New Monastery poses as a pre-mortem tribute album to pianist/composer Andrew Hill, an innovative free-form jazz scientist. Credited with experimenting with extreme variations of tempo and note-length, as well as implementing daring rhythmical spontaneity, Hill recorded with many of the 1950s greats, including Miles and Bird. Like Coltrane, Hill quickly seized upon the technical mastery of contemporary jazz and in the late 50s and early 60s set about redefining rules of melodic flow. Fittingly, Cline takes his cue to expand on pre-existing modalities and, while not covering songs or re-inventing them completely, puts forth twelve variations of Hill's compositions, melding them into 7 tracks.

"McNeil Island" opens the album with the sounds of key-finding and note-testing. Slowly testing the waters, it has the sense of trepidation and preparation, but is actually the musical masturbation of seasoned veterans. This exercise melds with the rising, threatening "Pumpkin," which flies about your face with a frenetic buzz. "Not Sa No Sa" startles with the bang of pots and pans falling to the floor, and while it presents some interesting swirls of off-white noise, it often struggles with sing-song-y marching, and mash-ups of what sound like circus organs. A true joy on this album is the light-hearted "Yokada Yokada." It frightens the listener at first with an unbridled burst of childish bounce, but settles into a nice up-beat groove before blasting into a fantastic guitar-based no-brakes car ride called "The Rumproller." Nels scurries up stanzas like a crack-fed squirrel, feverishly anxious to get to some rock/jazz orgasmic pinnacle, and it would be cold-hearted to deny that he comes damn close. Besides the tender "Sketches in Spain" cornet in "Dedication," played by Bobby Bradford, the free-flow crazy passion of Cline's guitar is reason enough to give this album a once over. Hopefully, it'll say something to you, even if, like me, you have to crack it open against the rock-hard stubbornness of a traditional mindset.