Denton, 12.8.2023

On the hook to make opening remarks for the first night of Molten Plains Fest at Rubber Gloves Rehearsal Studios, I was determined not to exceed my allotted time the way I had at the Dennis Gonzalez Legacy Band show earlier in year. I was starting late and there was a tight schedule to keep, so I edited myself on the fly and met the requirement. 

The trio of Wendy Eisenberg (guitar), Stefan Gonzalez (drums), and Damon Smith (bass) got right to it, exploding out of the gate in pure energy rush and then settling into a set replete with textural and dynamic shifts. Eisenberg does a lot of things well -- their Brazilian-inflected songcraft is particularly noteworthy -- but I have never seen anyone play noise guitar with such an elegant attack and fluid economy of motion, scattering shards of dissonance and wringing chiming harmonics from the warm-toned Jazzmaster with brutal percussive force. 

Stefan Gonzalez, whom I'm accustomed to seeing toss off astonishing fills with casual nonchalance, has attained a new level of rhythmic fluency, working his way around the kit with precisely controlled violence, then shifting to vibraphone to inject the music with another melodic and textural element. There isn't a stronger bassist than Damon Smith anywhere, whether he's playing pile-driver pizzicato -- at one point embarking on a light-speed walk like a berserk bebopper -- applying extended techniques, or bowing in a manner that can be fierce or lyrical. I look forward to hearing this trio's new cassette, the premiere release on Sarah Ruth Alexander and recordist extraordinare Stephen Lucas's Joan of Bark label.

The action shifted to the Rubber Room (formerly known as the Speakeasy), adjacent to the outdoor smoking area (what Stooges guitarist Ron Ashton referred to as "the second class citizens' area) for a set of sound art and electroacoustic improvisation from Kory Reeder, Louise Fristensky, and Ernesto Montiel. Using stand-up bass, an electric guitar, and arrays of electronics, this trio conjured a dark, heavy ambience, filled with foreboding, punctuated by whale song-sounds and occasional shuddering dissonance. A head-clearing "palate cleanser" after the event-rich set that preceded it.

 

The evening's most sublime music came from the duo of Joe McPhee and Zoh Amba. The two tenorists declined the opportunity to do a Sonny Rollins-esque playing walk-on, but quickly got on with the business of exploring the depth and breadth of sounds available from the horn. Amba almost seemed like a different musician from the previous evening's explosive energy orgy; she shaped her lines with greater care and played with a more pensive sound (except for an episode near the end of the set when she cut loose and roared). 

McPhee displayed his total command of the instrument, and the two built pieces from short, repeating phrases that they expanded and played in counterpoint, exploring all the available sounds, from tapping on the pads and blowing over the reed to overblowing and using multiphonics, infusing their dialogue with shades of lyricism and blues feeling. At times, McPhee vocalized along with his horn, and once recited a variation on "Even a man who's pure of heart and says his prayers at night / Can become a wolf when the wolfbane blooms and the moon shines clear and bright." Amba was playing a quiet passage when a passing train interjected its sound, and McPhee called the set down with the simple observation, "Train." (Or was it "Trane?")

Later, when I buttonholed McPhee in the bar and observed that much of their set sounded as though it had been worked out in advance, he shook his head and said, "We never talked about music. That all just happened on the stage." When I noted that at one point, he'd interjected a snippet of Ellingtonia ("Come Sunday"), he shook his head again. "That was her," he said. I began to realize that perhaps Zoh Amba's study of the tradition has extended past the '60s freedom icons that she gets compared to. Perhaps the Ayler I thought I was hearing in her wide vibrato might be...Ben Webster? "And I'm 60 years older than her!" McPhee marveled. The cherished elder and touchstone paid tribute to his worthy acolyte. I'd love to hear this facet of her playing documented on record. Tonight, McPhee performs again in a trio with trombonist Dave Dove (who first booked McPhee to play in Houston back in January 1998) and vocalist Carmina Escobar. 

While in the bar, I ran into James Talambas, whom I remember jumping off the stage at the Wreck Room (RIP) when he was playing percussion in The Theater Fire (nearly 20 years ago!) and banging on what seemed like every object in the room; running sound at the Firehouse Gallery (also RIP) on Meadowbrook Drive in Fort Worth; and doing an improv performance with a visual artist when Herb Levy presented an experimental music fest at what's now the Fort Worth Community Arts Center. These days, James is running an art gallery, New Media Contemporary, in Dallas's Exposition Park (830 Exposition Ave, Ste 102). The gallery has a showing of Daniel Weintraub's film Deep Listening: The Story of Pauline Oliveros, including a live conversation with the director, scheduled for 6:30pm on Saturday, January 27.

[Read the exciting conclusion here.]