5.17.2018, Deep Ellum

It had probably been close to a decade since the last time I set foot in bustling Deep Ellum, but when I saw The Young Mothers were stopping by RBC -- the acronym stands for "Rhythm, Beats, Culture" (formerly the Red Blood Club), tucked behind a burger joint on Commerce, and site of Stefan Gonzalez's Monday-night Outward Bound Mixtape Sessions -- on their way to Europe (via Austin), and that the bill was rounded out by Ataraxia and Habu Habu, I had sufficient reason to leave not only my couch and my house, but even my area code (a rare occurrence these days).

First things first: Habu Habu is the solo project of Gregg Prickett, who was Ronald Shannon Jackson's last guitarist and whose own work combines classical fluency with advanced jazz, rock, and improv ideas. In performance, his entire physical being is focused on a still center, from which he spins all manner of sonic tapestries, now caressing the strings gently, now striking them with great violence, always with impeccable control. A ruminative opener, played on his nylon string, was dedicated to "a special person," and filled with heart-healing lyricism. Then he looped percussive noises by rubbing on the strings, over which he overlaid pensive electric chords, out of which emerged a stunning surprise: a version of the standard "It Had To Be You," on which Prickett sang as well as played. (He's been studying standard repertoire with a pianist and exploring the idea of lyrics as a medium to tell stories.) On his closing number, he stacked orchestrated parts to create a dense forest of sound. Prickett plans to revive his Mingus-inspired Monks of Saturnalia soon with Ataraxia's Drew Phelps and Young mothers Jason Jackson and Stefan Gonzalez. I look forward to hearing.

I'd last seen Ataraxia -- trumpeter-composer Dennis Gonzalez's trio with bassist Phelps and percussionist Jagath Lakpriya -- at house shows when they were still feeling each other out, and it was a pleasure hearing Dennis explore different space than the intense one he usually inhabits in Yells At Eels with his sons Stefan and Aaron Gonzalez. Now, Ataraxia's performance commences with the musicians already deep into the music, as though resuming a conversation that they'd started earlier. That's what playing together for a couple of years will do for an ensemble; good (but not obtrusive) amplification makes a difference, too. On this night, Aaron -- just back from a tour with the dark experimental collective Asukubus -- augmented the lineup on second bass, seamlessly swapping accompanying and solo roles with Drew. When Phelps played dancing syncopation against the younger Gonzalez's steady pulse, the music went to a special place. When not cuing solos or otherwise directing the band, Dennis played small instruments, laid down block chords using a harmonizer, and played long, sinuous lines over Lakpriya's primeval groove.

Then Young Mothers roared out of the gate with fierce, jarring visceral power. Theirs is a dense, multi-layered sound where Ivesian contrapuntal lines often divide the ensemble into competing units -- a testament to their attentive listening. Drummer Frank Rosaly was taken ill in Amsterdam, so his place was ably filled by Chris Holmes, who played the music with an authority that belied his last-minute substitution. Stefan Gonzalez's mallets fleetly flew across his vibraphone, sometimes at the same time as he shrieked grindcore style, and he added power on a second drum kit when required. Jawwaad Taylor coaxed a myriad of beats and samples from his laptop, over which he flowed verse -- as on "Attica Black," wherein he conjures a country become prison yard -- and blew circuitous lines on his pocket trumpet. Saxman Jason Jackson has a robust, burnished sound on tenor and baritone, sounding for all the world like Archie Shepp channeling Ben Webster. Leader Ingebrigt Haker Flaten -- whose numerous other projects include The Thing, surely the only free jazz trio to have worked with both Neneh Cherry and James "Blood" Ulmer -- has a muscular attack on Rickenbacker and stand-up basses, laying down pummeling rock rifferama one moment, relentless ostinatos the next, and coaxing pealing waves of feedback from his amp on the climactic piece.

In any other band, each of these men could be the main attraction. The challenge of witnessing a Young Mothers performance is deciding where to focus. Perhaps most astonishing was guitarist Jonathan Horne, who runs his Mosrite through a preamp, tiny Fender and Premier amps, and an arsenal of effects to produce huge slabs of thick-toned sound, sometimes doubling Haken's line, at others blending with Jackson, then soloing with insane abandon, including slashing Sharrockian chaos-slide. His remarkable performance entered the realm of the miraculous in my mind when I learned that he's recovering from having a tendon in his left arm severed six months ago -- he'd been unsure he'd ever play again -- bringing to mind a convo I'd had earlier with Prickett about Sinatra, Billie Holiday, Derek Bailey, and how a performer responds when their physical capability changes. (Horne credited his bandmates' support following his injury as an aid to his recovery.)

As imposing as these Young Mothers were on RBC's small stage, one can imagine how they'd dominate a larger festival stage. It's all there on their new album Morose (check out the track "Black Tar Caviar," which provides a nice summation of their multiplicity of strengths), but this music really needs to be experienced live. How fortunate 30 or so of us were that they docked in Deep Ellum last night. I'll be anxiously awaiting their return.