I’ve been aware of Matt Berry since seeing him in Garth Marenghi’s Dark Place. Up until now I’ve found his (always exactly the same) character – loud, brashly self-confident, etc. – for example, in The IT Crowd, rather annoying. But somehow, here, with a show that’s all about him, that same boorish self-love works much better.
Indeed, I have to confess I found this, when I binged on the first three or four episodes, very funny and entertaining.
Berry is also a musician, which is a mixed blessing in respect of this series. His theme music for the series – ‘Take My Hand’ – is terrific. But the song interludes embedded in the individual episodes are rather poor. Maybe that’s intentional? But for me it doesn’t quite work. And it makes the series, otherwise quite slick, a bit clunky.
Toast and his nemesis, Ray Purchase.
But all in all, Toast’s ludicrous self-regard helps propel him through various very silly scenarios, in which we can also enjoy numerous other ridiculous ‘luvvies’, admirably. Not an out and out classic. But very funny and enjoyable.
BONUS BALL
This slightly Bond-themed episode may be my favourite of series one. Or maybe not? Like all the episodes, it made me laugh a lot. But it’s also pretty lame. Somehow it builds its own crappiness and lameness into the fabric of the show itself.
One thing that really strikes me, whilst watching this – indeed, whenever I see Matt Berry perform – is what a truly dreadful actor he is. Genuinely. He is always exactly the same. His vocal delivery is always the same, a kind of pompous declamatory tone.
He sounds like he’s doing an impression of a British male actor from the 1940s or ’50s, but he’s forgotten exactly who.
One of the chief threads that runs through the whole series – and indeed all Matt Berry character’s I’ve ever seen – is Toast’s lothario lifestyle. And as a sex-crazed ‘deviated prevert’ myself, I can’t help but warm to this aspect of his delusional self-love. M
Toast enjoys Mrs Ray Purchase.
Mind, he’s not delusional as portrayed here, frequently getting his oats (always dressed in his vest!), usually doggy style! And frequently with the wife of his arch rival, Ray Purchase, another dreadful moustachioed ham.
In trying (and failing) to buy a ticket to see Ron Carter, playing his first UK gig in nearly a decade, I discovered Jas Kayser, a young female drummer.
I’ll definitely be checking her and her group out live, as and when I get the opportunity. In the meantime, here’s a rather sweet little interview with her – click here – conducted by her twin brother!
A sudden wave of nostalgia swept over me, recently, in the guise of the theme song from Hanna Barbera’s Hong Kong Phooey theme song.
Recently, well, today, to be precise, we watched almost all of the episodes whilst child-minding for my sister. I actually dozed off for a considerable portion. And then I had to help cook the evening meal. So I didn’t actually see as much as I’d hoped to.
Now, back home, I’m watching from the start again. And it’s really silly! Not amazing, but just kind of fun, especially as a dose of nostalgia.
Scatman Crothers.-
Scatman Crothers’ voice is perfect for Phooey, somehow approximating in vibe to his half-closed eyes when in Penry mode: mellow, relaxed, and winningly self-confident, despite his hopeless incompetence. Blissfully unaware that his triumphs are all accidental, or brought about by Spot, the cat, or other helpful characters.
Penry and Spot.The hapless Sgt Flint, centre.
Sgt Flint is endearing, as a gruff, dim and bear-like flat footed-copper. And Rosemary? I loved Rosemary way back when. And I find I still love her now! ‘Your lovable lady fuzz’!? Delicious!
Switchboard sweetheart, Rosemary.
The stories are ridiculous. Never was a ‘McGuffin’ less relevant to the enjoyment of a show! It’s all just an excuse to have Phooey (and frequently Spot) goofing about in crazy situations. The charmingly doofus Phooey, with his correspondence course book of Kung Fu up his sleeve, is undoubtedly where the charm lays.
For a cartoon with such a short run, it seemed to hit some kind of nerve, such that it’s remained on screens ever since it was made, way back in ‘74. And I find, that whilst I’m now far older, I still have a soft-spot for this mild mannered janitor/superhero, and his sidekicks, Spot, Flint, and very definitely, Rosemary!
I found out, via a pal’s FB post, that Loretta Lynn died today. I’m not a big country music fan, but I did enjoy the movie Coal Miner’s Daughter. And Loretta’s sister, Crystal Gale, recorded One From The Heart, with Tom Waits, which is a sublime album.
So, in memory of Loretta, here’s my review of Coal Miner’s Daughter (originally posted to Amazon UK, some years ago):
Exactly how near the true facts of the Loretta Lynn story this is, I don’t know. For all that some difficult moments are depicted, I suspect it’s still a somewhat sanitised version. But, gol’darn’ it, it makes for a very entertaining and moving viewing experience.
Sissy Spacek is excellent in the lead role – both she and Beverly D’Angelo, who plays Patsy Cline, sing their songs (an album was released alongside the film) – and Tommy Lee Jones, despite shockingly dyed red hair, acquits himself well as her man, known variously as ‘Mooney’ (from a stint running ‘moonshine’), and ‘Doo’, short for Doolittle. Recently deceased drummer for The Band, Levon Helm, plays Lynn’s titular coal-mining father. ‘Ted’.
The real Loretta, plus ‘Doo’ and kids.
Director Michael Apted handles the whole film very well, evoking an America that one suspects is nearly vanished. At one point in the film they receive several telephone message by the means of a neighbour, who has a ‘phone, hollerin’ the news at them from his nearby property. How real all the hillbilly shacks, honky-tonks, pie-auctions, dungarees and dancing, the “coalminin’, moonshinin’ or movin’ on down the line” really are, is hard for me to estimate. But it paints a very evocative and charming picture.
I got to this via Tom Waits and Crystal Gayle, Gayle being Lynn’s sister (the Waits/Gayle collaboration for Coppola’s One From The Heart being an instance of a pretty duff movie paired with a beyond-words-brilliant OST), and the Levon Helm connection.
Even after watching this and loving it, I’m not sure I’ll be getting into Lynn’s music too deeply. But that just shows that this Country & Western star biopic has an appeal beyond Lynn’s fan base. As told here, hers is both an interesting and at times very moving story.
Wow! I have to admit I thoroughly enjoyed this Australian ‘Nam movie. They say ‘war is Hell’, and it sure is in this particular story.
Based on real events, of 18 August, 1966, during which an Australian force comes under heavy attack from a much North Vietnamese contingent. Rather like certain British military events, such as Dunkirk and The Charge of the Light Brigade, and albeit on a smaller scale, it seeks to wring victory and heroism from botched or incompetent actions (so it’s also akin, in that respect, to We Were Soldiers).
American films about ‘the ‘Nam’ are both very plentiful and very familiar to us, here in the UK. Australian films on the same war? Much much less so. To the degree that this might be the only one that I’m aware of (Attack Force Z, what was that all about?*).
11 Platoon, pinned down in the woods.
It being Australian, I didn’t recognise many of the cast. I think a couple of faces were recognisable from Hacksaw Ridge? But even the ‘big name star’, Travis Fimmel, was not familiar to me. That’s actually kind of refreshing. One isn’t sidetracked by the ‘star factor’.
But, truth be told, that this is an Aussie take on the Viet Nam war was just about the only surprising thing about it. In most other respects it ticked a lot of the genre boxes:
The commander, Brigadier David Jackson (Richard Roxburgh), at the top of the chain, struggles to assert his authority, and is a bit disconnected from his grunts on the ground. Major Harry Smith (Fimmel) is a hard-ass, who eventually earns his men’s love and respect. There are slo-mo explosions and blood splatters aplenty, and last minute relief arrives just as the seemingly never ending tides of the enemy are about to engulf ‘our heroes’.
Fimmel as Major Harry Smith.
And there are lots more clichés from the Big Book of How To Shoot Viet Nam War Movies, 101. But I don’t mind that in the least. I found it engaging enough, and believable enough. Despite it belonging, ultimately, to a lineage that goes back to the ol’ Cowboys vs Injuns formulae of Hollywood.
After the barrage of Royal Funeral TV propaganda we were subjected to today, a chest-thumping, grim and bloody war movie was exactly what I needed!
FOOTNOTE
Whilst looking for images from the film I found this rather interesting piece by an ANZAC veteran who says he fought and was wounded in Viet Nam. He rates the movie highly, for depicting the ANZAC role in Viet Nam at all, but laments what he views as historical inaccuracies.
Director Kriv Stenders, Fimmel, and crew, on set during filming.
NB – The above photo comes from a series taken by veteran photographer Tim Page, who covered the actual conflict, and shot some very compelling black and white images of the film production on the very same 1965 Leica M2 he used to photograph the real war!
* I checked, Z is a WWII movie. But, what with links to Hacksaw Ridge, We Were Soldiers and, even if mistakenly, Attack Force Z, Mel Gibson’s shadow hangs over this post!
An interaction with family today has made me reflect on the incredible depths of penetration that politics really has. And how the establishment so totally owns and runs and controls the ‘status quo’.
The dominant narrative in the UK right now is that we’re all united in grief over the death of Queen Elizabeth II. And any dissent from this position is automatically negative and therefore despicable. This position silences debate, playing very powerfully into the interests of retrograde Conservatism.
And the ‘shut up and don’t complain’ card is very powerful. So I’m very happy to see and respectful of those few brave souls taking a principled stand against the ongoing propaganda and lies that swaddle our monarchy.
From Labour MP Clive Lewis to barrister Paul Powlesland, and the guy caught on film pointing out to Charles the costs to ordinary people of the monarchy, it’s refreshing to find that some people are not being hypnotised by all the pageantry.
Paul Powlesland.
Powlesland said “One of the many things that makes me proud to be British is our freedom of speech. It’s one of our most precious and sacred rights and it’s far more precious to me than the royal family is.” Amen to that! And, as he experienced, when making a very mild protest in London, these freedoms are being systematically attacked by our current Tory (mis)government.
And in the UK today amongst some of the most powerful groups serving and enabling Tory repression are those very large swathes of people who are doing alright. The ‘I’m alright Jack, don’t rock the boat, with your carping negativity’ crowd are helping silence dissent, or alternative views/possibilities.
And, lest we forget, we wouldn’t have things like weekends, holidays, sick pay, the eight hour day or 40 hour week, etc, if it wasn’t for the dissenting voices. Or even the NHS, which is really and fundamentally a response to the massive blood sacrifices made by the working masses in two world wars. If we’re required to make such sacrifices for the state/nation, shouldn’t that state/nation look after us? Damn right it should!
I like history, including the colourful Napoleonic wars, with the ridiculous peacock finery of uniforms that were often destined to be torn into bloody pieces, along with the ‘soft machines’ wearing them, by shot and shell. I love cathedrals, but I loathe religion. I can see the appeal of the pageantry. But I also see the oppressive institutionalisation of inequality such mummery represents.
Tory propaganda nowadays looks different, but is essentially the same.*
It’d all be fine if nothing meant anything – a position that appears to have escaped the genie’s bottle of left-wing ‘postmodern’ academia and infected the entire organism of modern culture with a very pernicious form of relativism – but alas, stuff does mean something. And in this case it means ‘shut up, know your place, and march in step with us, backwards towards a fantasy feudal past’.
No thanks!
I’m inevitably going to see some of today’s tomfoolery. Teresa likes that sort of thing. I can hear she’s watching it now. So I’ll get sucked in as well. Hey ho!
Gillray’s prodigious talent was very effectively deployed by the Tories.
As I’m typing this the soporific harmonies of High Anglican service waft up the stairs. It seems as if, thinking back to the ECW – what Royalist history calls ‘The Interregnum’ – with the Stuart Restoration, and then later the Glorious Revolution, England, or what became the UK, awoke momentarily from the stupefied slumber of monarchy, only to lapse back into a deep sleep. A sad state of affairs that continues to this day. Wake up!
* Gillray was a brilliant satirical political cartoonist. But his fabulous talents were deployed by the oppressor, to maintain a conservative status quo. Nowadays Gillray’s job is accomplished via the predominantly right wing media, be it print, TV, or online. At least Gillray left us something we can still admire and enjoy! The tawdry disposable ephemera of our own times barely exists beyond the few minutes or hours it’s required to do it’s job.
ADDENDUM
Ever since hearing the news of the Queen’s passing, I’ve been thinking, who else died that day? How many took their own lives, amidst poverty and despair? How many of those who died, anonymous unlamented (relative to the Queen that is), might have lived longer and better lives – richer lives, even if not in the fiscal sense – if our society was less wealth and power crazed, venal and uncaring?
Out of the blue, after a long of spell of excellent sleep, I’ve just had a pretty awful night of insomnia. And, ironically, I’ve finally gotten around to starting to read Robin Walker’s Why We Sleep. So I’m more than usually aware of how bad losing sleep is!
Anyway, after several hours of just lying in bed, fully awake, I figured I might as well do something, since I wasn’t apparently able to sleep. So I wrote a bit, for the blog, and I listened to 1969 (and some other stuff, inc. Mizrab), by Gabor Szabo. Holy guacamole, 1969 is really good!
A glowing accolade from Leonard Feather!
Before getting into it track by track, here’s the track list and personnel credits:
Dear Prudence Sealed With A Kiss Both Sides Now Walk Away Renee You Won’t See Me Michael From Mountains Stormy In My life I’ve Just Seen A Face Until It’s Time For You To Go Somewhere I Belong
Gabor Szabo - guitar Francois Vaz - guitar Mike Melvoin - keys Louis Kabok - bass Randy Cierly-Sterling - bass Jim Keltner - drums/percussion George Ricci- cello Gary McFarland - arranger
It’s pretty stunning to think that stuff like this is how drummer Jim Keltner, who I first grew to know and love through his long term associations with Bob Dylan and Ry Cooder, got started! And everything about the whole musical package is so great I want to know more about all concerned. Didn’t keys man Mike Melvoin play with Tom Waits, on Nighthawks At The Diner?
Some of the other names – Francois Vaz, Louis Kabok – are new(-ish) to me. Gary McFarland I’d heard of. Along with promoter Norman Schwartz and Cal Tjader, Szabo and McFarland founded the short lived Skye Records, for which label this absolute gem was recorded.
They used the Isle of Skye’s coat of arms for the label!
Having dipped into this album frequently recently, I’d still not listened the whole way through. That is until my recent bouts of insomnia. The night before last, during which I didn’t sleep at all – until I caught up a bit during the day* – I listened to the entirety of 1969 in one sitting (or, to be more accurate, one laying!).
* As a teacher on school holidays I’m lucky I can do this!
The version I listened to, a full-album rip on YouTube, doesn’t have the best audio quality. I’m hoping when I get this on CD it’ll be better! This YouTube version is rather muddy, sonically. And most Gabor Szabo stuff is immaculately recorded. But that aside, the quality of the performances is superlative.
Still from film or video of Szabo with Kabok.
The group is an interesting one, as all the players have jazz chops, but are also very comfortable with and attuned to pop/rock sensibilities, such that they can play with a stripped down minimalism most out and out jazzbos very rarely manage. Although Gary McFarland isn’t a player here, it strikes me that perhaps his arranging and producing skills are instrumental in achieving the sounds and the, er… vibes?
Gary McFarland, feelin’ those vibes!
I’m going to come right out and say it; I do believe this one of Szabo’s greatest records. Oft times it’s belittled (albeit not as much as his late ‘70s stuff; Doug Payne calls much of Faces ‘disco trash’!), particularly by those who prefer his more overtly trad’ jazziness. (I don’t mean Dixie!).
Part of the charm of this particular album is the material. There are four Beatles numbers, two of which – You Won’t See Me and In My Life – are from Rubber Soul (possibly my favourite Fab Four album?). And, as well as several more obscure choices, there’s the oft-covered Stormy.
But what’s this? Two Joni tunes!? Both Sides Now has been covered umpteen times. And Szabo’s version is brilliant. But Michael From Mountains? This latter ranks with Mark Murphy’s Barangrill, and Don Sebesky’s Song To A Seagull. Simply having the good taste to pick such wonderful material, never mind the required skill to make such a unique artists’ unusual music one’s own… fab!
Ultimately 1969 hits that eargasmic G-spot for me: musical perfection. Everything is just so. You could try to label it: it’s partly jazz, partly pop, partly rock, bossa, easy-listening, psych, etc. The joy and the magic lies precisely in rendering such categorisation efforts totally footile*. It’s just great music.
* The Fenland yod-dropping way!
I’d love to get this Cherry Red comp.
Whilst writing this post I discovered that Cherry Red did a reissue/compilation called Sketch For Summer, which focussed on McFarland and Szabo’s richly creative partnership. Like almost all the music I’m getting interested in lately, this is OOP and hard/expensive to find! It only covers their 1964-‘68 collaborations, so nothing off 1969 is included. Interesting to see two tracks are with Brazilian maestro Tom Jobim!
But to round off, back to ‘69! The album starts with Dear Prudence, and ends with the only Sabor original in this particular set, Somewhere I Belong. I’m giving this disc my rare accolade of six stars. That’s a bit like Spinal Tap’s amps going up to eleven: the normal range is 0-5 stars. Only the crème de la crème attain the hallowed six!
Watched this during another insomniac wee small hours spell. A spoof documentary, or, as they call ‘em now, a mockumentary, FUBAR follows a film-maker, Farrel Mitchner (Gordon Skilling) who is himself following two white-trash stoner headbangers, Terry and Dean.
Set in suburban Alberta, Canada, it takes a while to get used to, and was filmed on a Canon XL1, giving it a very lo-fi verité flavour. With a core cast and no script, the movie was largely improvised, some scenes involving ‘John Q Public’, unaware it was actually a work of fiction. Apparently the fist-fighters, for example, were genuine.
Terry (Dave Lawrence, who made the film) and Dean (Paul Spence) are two young long-haired rocker slobs. Continually shotgunning beers, smoking (fags or weed), and living on diets of appalling junk food. They’re dumb, foul-mouthed and pretty nihilistic.
At first I found myself thinking, what’s the point of this wallowing in the kind of hippy dream turned sour that has created zombie hordes across the US, and – this is set in Canada – North (and no doubt also South) America?
Dean and Terry.
It was horrifyingly salutory to see how large a part of the MAGA/Trumpite crowds of Jan 6th were longhaired losers looking very like the two chief protagonists of this film. But there’s also everyone else; the lads’ families, partners, friends, co-workers/employers, etc. And Farrel and his documentary crew.
All these others, inc Troy/Tron, a former party animal gone ‘square’, are the ‘straight’ world. Dean’s mom [sic!] recites a poem, ‘Woman Is A Danger Cat’, by her son, whilst he plays his sensitive acoustic ballad ‘Rock & Roll Is My Guitar’. Terry’s employer (or is it Dean’s? I forget!) corrects his delusional embellishments on his professional responsibilities. And Troy’s partner tells it like it is, regarding women and their effects on slacker slobs!
In some ways this film, as awful as it is in many ways, has a resonance for me, in that I lived for a while a life a little bit like theirs. The ubiquity of ‘cuss-words’, the aimless boozing and smoking, and the ‘us against the straight world’, were all part of my early twenties hippy-dream-gone-sour interlude.
But whilst we were naive, we were never so moronically dumb, nor so grotesquely ignorant and hypocritical. These dolts love to trash stuff, leaving a trail of litter in their wake (‘the park ranger’s’ll clear it up’). This particular brand of white trash rocker types seem peculiarly American (or Canadian; I have Canadian ancestry*) in their boorishness. From their ‘hockey mullet’ hairdos (very obviously wigs!) to their mix of heavy metal and ‘sportswear’ clobber.
* My grandfather and one of my uncles were Canadians. I still have relatives over there.
Hangin’ out on the stoop…
But, not unexpectedly, several threads are introduced to being a bit more depth. First we learn Dean has testicular cancer. And is kind of in denial. And second, the interactions between Farrel and his crew and their subjects lead to… well, we’ll get to that.
The whole cancer thread is, kind of ironically and paradoxically, the saviour of this movie, which otherwise might’ve been a pointless exercise in Ali-G’esque social satire. In the end it’s awkwardly straight Farrel whose reaction to Dean’s medical emergency catalyses the catatonic headbanger into taking appropriate action, with some chiding from his ex, Trixie.
Farrel starts out mostly off camera, but gradually becomes a more and more key character, until… blam! He’s gone. I won’t say more, not wanting to spoil it too much for those who haven’t seen this. But everything around this crucial episode is very well done, and, like the revelation re Dean’s monster nut, it elevates an otherwise mundane movie, bringing pathos and a degree of subtler human observation that’s actually both well observed and quite moving.
The film was a success at Sundance, and has spawned a sequel, Fubar II, a TV series, and some sort of online offshoots. So it’s done well for a super low budget indie affair (financed by a maxed out credit card and a parental re-mortgage; phew… that could’ve ended very badly!).
Dude’s got style…
It’s very sad to say this, but the film’s low key trashiness, and the imbecilic Everyman types it portrays, make it perfect for the efflorescence of serf-culture that’s been so assiduously cultivated by the evil machinations of recent populist governments – Trump in the US, BoJo in the UK – in the so called developed Western world.
I genuinely didn’t know which way it’d go at the end. And it was nice the way it did turn out. But maybe that’ll be the aspect that makes it so very much a work of fiction? And perhaps the rise of the kind of cultures it documents in the real world won’t turn out to have such a happy ending?
Far from essential or classic, nonetheless, not too shabby. And, whilst I’m not sure I’d say ‘worth watching’, it wasn’t a total waste of time.
AI generated – I think? – by the lyrics of the ‘Polygondwanaland trilogy’, by King Gizzard & The Wizard Lizard.
I was all set to not even watch this. Then to dislike it… and now I’m bemused, as I really rather like a lot of aspects of the resulting ‘art’. And I’m intrigued as to how it’s done.
This arrived on Sunday. It’s a Japanese reissue, from a series of CTI re-releases; sadly the liner notes are Greek to me, so to speak.
Recorded at Rudy Van Gelder’s famous studio, in ‘72, it was the first of just three for Creed Taylor’s equally famous CTI label (the others being Rambler and Macho).
With a rhythm section of Bob James, Ron Carter, Ralph MacDonald, Billy Cobham and Jack DeJohnette, and horns that feature Hubert Laws and others, Szabo is supported by a stellar cast. The arrangements are by Bob James, and it’s all engineered by RVG.
What was side one was made up of the first two lengthy cuts, Mizrab and Thirteen, both Szabo originals. Side two develops the guitarist’s famously eclectic range in terms of other folk’s material, with It’s Going To Take Some Time, by Carole King, and Seals’ and Crofts’ Summer Breeze, sat either side of a Szabo take on a Shostakovich Concerto!
Pensive, and wide-collard, Szabo.
The album kicks off with Szabo original and titular Mizrab, Ron Carter’s opening bass figures conjuring an Arab-influenced exoticism suggested by the track’s name. Once it gets going, there are shades of modalism, and things even sound Metheny-esque occasionally.
The title track clocks in at just under ten minutes, and after Szabo’s own long solo, the rhythm section of Bob, Ron, Billy and Ralph really cook the groove in a deliciously early ‘70s jazz fusion vein, so very CTI!
It’s interesting hearing Cobham playing in a more restrained than usual manner! Which he does admirably, whilst still retaining his instantly recognisable touch and sound. Towards the end he ramps it up a bit, when taking a solo. Does he also slip out of sync? I’m friends with Ron Carter on FB. I might have to ask him about this!
The same group then tackle a second Szabo number, called Thirteen. This begins with Szabo’s and Ron duetting, showing what total masters of their instruments they are, in a fabulous interplay, before Cobham and co join (sans Ralph, poss’?), for an epic jam.
The exceedingly cool mr Ron Carter.
The main two chord vamp is just a semi-tone shift, again evoking eastern vibes. And, having introduced that term, I have to pause and remark on what an incredible vibes player Szabo is. Not vibraphone, obviously! But feel. And it’s clear that his vibesmanship is subtly but strongly steering the whole ensemble.
Also clocking in at near ten minutes (just over nine this time), the groove and feel are quite radically different ‘cause Bob James is playing acoustic piano, as opposed to the Fender Rhodes type electric of Mizrab.
Also worthy of note is that there’s quite clearly, on both Mizrab and Thirteen, a second guitar. But it’s Szabo overdubbing, rather than another player. Yet another sign of Gabor’s unusual and idiosyncratic take on contemporary jazz. Really quite something!
After the long epic intensity of the two tracks of ‘side one’ cone the three shorter tracks that formerly comprised ‘side two’. These are where the strings and horns come in, with that rich, lush and full CTI production feel.
Creed Taylor.
Carole King’s It’s Going To Take Some Time feels aptly light, and pop-folk, after the jazzy intensity of ‘side one’. But despite the expansion from quartet or quintet to a full on studio number with strings and horns, it’s still very Szabo, and sits happily with the foregoing material.
Things get a bit more ambitious with Concerto #2, which starts out like a small to medium chamber orchestra, and is more Shostakovich/classical – naturally – than what has preceded it. When it transitions from orchestra to jazz ensemble a pronounced 6/8 feel emerges, and the much lighter touch of Jack DeJohnette on drums adds to the change of feel.
I’m not always convinced by jazz meets classical experiments (Garbarek with The Tallis Scholars was awful!). But I quite like what Szabo et al cook up here. Interestingly it starts out classical, goes all jazz, and then the two start to blend and merge. This is an approach Don Sebesky explores on another excellent CTI recording, Giant Box, albeit with a rather overall effect.
And so we come to the fifth and final track, the Seals and Croft classic, Summer Breeze, which I first grew to know and love via The Isley Bros version. Cobham is back in his throne, and this track returns the entire recording to a kind of sonic and spiritual home/centre, that perfectly balances all the disparate yet homogenised elements that all the players and the material have brought to the party.
Szabo, on the cover of Down Beat, June, ‘72.
There’s plenty of strings and horns, beautifully arranged by James, a middle soloing section over a cleverly constructed riff (Carter and Cobham expertly driving the groove, with a little ‘back to front’ but if rhythmic play thrown in) from the song, all bookended with the melodic themes of the original composition, beautifully played by a truly stellar cast of musicians, fabulously recorded by Rudy, delivering another gem for Creed. Result!
