Scenes From A Record Fair

Scott Walker & Sunn O))) in my hand

Brilliant sunshine brought a good crowd to the Brooklyn Flea Record Fair yesterday - although not as big a crowd as to Smorgasburg next door, which was packed like a subway car during budget cuts. I knew I was in the right place when a guy asked to photograph my Mobb Deep NYC t-shirt before I'd even had a chance to look at any records. Here's a few other observations from my time among my people.

Scene 1: The Steinski Sales Pitch

There was a table on the end of one of the rows that was attracting considerable attention. They had four or five boxes of LP's on the table and the same amount on the ground and were particularly strong in the areas of funk and soul - prime DJ fodder. The records were reasonably priced at an average of $8.00, especially considering that they were all in immaculate condition and sleeved in plastic. "Most of these are from Steinski's collection," the vendor casually stated after I had been flipping for a couple of minutes. "Yeah, he has like 12,000 LP's and he's lightening his load a little, so we took about 1,000 off his hands."

For anyone who knows who Steinski is, this was the perfect Pavlovian pitch, but it still didn't cause me to totally give up all judgment and buy a Kool & The Gang live album that I can easily listen to on Spotify. And while I also appreciated that the rock section was divided into "Pre-Bowie," "Bowie" and "Post-Bowie," I pretty much have everything in there that I want. So I kept going, eventually discovering Sister Rosetta Tharp's Spirituals In Rhythm. Sister Rosetta (who, the liner notes tell us, came from "an isolated negro community") is one of those overpowering artists like Eartha Kitt, Nellie Lutcher or Edith Piaf who I prefer to consume in small doses. Somehow a CD reissue of 80 minutes of intense gospel, etc., seems to cheapen the experience. Thanks, Steinski.

Scene 2: Mexican Morning 

The people at Mexican Summer treated me right the last time I came to one of these things so I stopped by their booth for a chat. I asked when the new Peaking Lights album was coming out. "Oh they're on Domino now," I was told. "Really? After all you guys did for them?" The rep laughed. I went on to say that I wasn't too sure about their new song, which seemed to indicate some mission drift. "It's emblematic of the album," she told me as I examined the Peter Matthew Bauer album. "Definitely not going to buy it before I try it, in that case!" I told her. 

"Do you know who Peter Matthew Bauer is?" she then asked, not knowing she was talking to one of the biggest fans of The Walkmen around. "Oh, yeah," I answered, "I've really been enjoying this record, definitely the best post-Walkmen album next to Hamilton's." I then began fingering a colorful thing called Morning Of The Earth, a limited edition reissue of a 40 year-old Australian surf soundtrack. The Jonas Mekas quote on the back intrigued me and the rep told me that if I bought anything from them, it should be this. "What's it sound like?" I asked. "70's rock," she told me. Sold and indeed it does, on the sun-kissed, grandiose side of things. Jonathan Wilson, get on this.

Scene 3: Capturing Perfection

I hadn't realized that Captured Tracks, the label that has released Perfect Pussy's records, was also a record store, something I quickly learned from their selection of both used records and their own stuff. I asked what was next for Perfect Pussy and found out that a split 7" is coming out in October and that Meredith Graves is working on a solo album. Other than that, they weren't very forthcoming so I moved on.

Scene 4: Soused On An iPad

The 4AD booth was not high on my radar as I kind of don't like any of their new artists (The National, Future Islands, Merchandise - not for me) but I stopped by before lunch and quickly noticed stickers for Soused, the Scott Walker collaboration with metallic droners Sunn O))). "Ooh, when's this coming out?" I asked the rep. "Date's on the back," and indeed it was: October 21. He dramatically removed a sleek black package from the stack on the table. "We have it here - you can look at it, touch it, smell it and even listen to it on an iPad - you just can't have it."

I placed the moth-eaten pink headphones on without a moment to spare and began previewing tracks immediately. It sounded very much like a contemporary Scott Walker album, except his voice was maybe even more beautiful, especially in contrast to the huge, throbbing guitars that slash and burn through the expansive soundscapes. Most of the songs are long and I wanted to be respectful so I only heard a few minutes of each. "Wow. It's like Sunn O))) might finally have a purpose - sounds fantastic!" One of the reps agreed, adding that Scott's direction seem to have given them a rudder. I will now be counting the days when I can see, touch, smell and listen to my own copy of Soused.

I asked them what 4AD's biggest seller for the year was. "Not Scott Walker!" We all had a good laugh at that, before they reported it was Future Islands cleverly titled Singles. "Oh, so that whole Letterman thing really gave them a boost, huh?" "Yeah, and it's just a really good record." I let my silence speak for itself before bidding them adieu and going off to fight the crowds for a lobster roll, some tropical punch and the little miracles that are Gooey Butter Cake.

Somewhere along the way I managed to score CD's of James Brown's Funky People (Part 3), Stereolab's BBC sessions and a gold disc of Why Can't We Be Friends? by War, while also observing people carting off massive stacks of wax and thinking that for those of us who really love music, there's plenty of life in the business of selling it. 

Double Bass, How Low Can You Go?

Casting Shadows: Coltrane and Garrison

From the 16th century to the end of the 19th century, the double bass was like the grandfather clock of music: tall, staid, making its regular noises in the back of the ensemble. Like most of the string section, it was either played with a bow (arco) or without (pizzicato), although most often the former. And when it was plucked, it was used to make a gentle sound in rhythm with the music.

The unamplified double bass has always had a volume problem, and with the rise of jazz in the 1890's, it was often replaced by the tuba, which had a better chance of cutting through the cacophony. As jazz distanced itself from its marching band roots, the string bass rose in prominence, with players developing a percussive slapping style that allowed the bassline to be heard.

As African-American musicians were essentially barred from the academy in those early years, it also must be said that teaching yourself slap bass is a lot easier than learning to use a bow. Throughout the 20th century, the music grew more complex and the players more skilled, and masters like Jimmy Blanton (in the Duke Ellington orchestra) brought a new level of prominence to the instrument. Paul Chambers, one of the finest bassists of all time, essentially traversed the history of bass in jazz, starting on the tuba and then switching to the double bass.

In his formative years, Chambers actually had some training from the bassist in the Detroit Symphony Orchestra, and became one of the first jazz bassists to regularly play arco. He went on to play with dozens of the most acclaimed leaders in jazz during the 50's and early 60's, including extensive work with both Miles Davis and John Coltrane, before his various addictions slowed his meteoric career. In 1969, he died of tuberculosis at the age of 33.

On his breakthrough album Giant Steps, Coltrane paid Chambers the ultimate tribute by naming a smoking tune after him called Mr. P.C. It became a farewell, however - Chambers was out of the band shortly after and was replaced first by Reggie Workman and then Jimmy Garrison, who played with Coltrane until the saxophonist's death from cancer in 1967.

Jimmy Garrison had a more aggressive style than Chambers, and was the perfect bassist to back up Trane as his music grew more experimental and sometimes even confrontational. In the early 60's, while the Beatles were singing Besame Mucho in Hamburg, the Stones were learning the chords to Little Red Rooster, and James Brown was in search of the funk, Garrison, Coltrane and co. were storming Europe with a live set that truly rocked.

Mr. P.C. became the centerpiece of many shows, often stretching to 25 or 30 minutes, and regularly brought the house down with blistering solos from all four members. These performances remained in the ether until 1979, when Pablo Records posthumously released one of the dates as The Paris Concert. Maybe that was just as well, because it would have been difficult for many people in the early 60's to truly comprehend the import of what was taking place.

For me as a teenager, jazz was basically chill-out music - Miles's Kind Of Blue and In A Silent Way were essential soundtracks to periods of decompression after days in high school or at a crappy summer job. Coltrane I mainly knew from the great double album reissue of his 50's work with the smooth Red Garland Trio. Then came Mr. P.C. played live in Paris, and it was like hearing the birth of punk. The key was Garrison's bad attitude during his monumental solo, which comes about seven minutes in, after McCoy Tyner's sparkling and cogent turn on the piano.

Garrison starts out with the bow, at first accompanied by Elvin Jones's splashy cymbal work, and then on his own. Running riffs up and down the neck for a couple of minutes, it's not long before he starts ripping the horsehair the wrong way across the strings, producing a ratcheting noise, and then bowing furiously, sometimes combining strings for dissonant effects. As he goes on, he digs further into the groove, like a one man Bomb Squad, creating fractured melodies and rhythms. And then at 12:48, it happens: he throws the bow on the stage.

It took me a few listens to understand what was happening and to picture it in my mind's eye. When a classical musician needs to switch from arco to pizzicato, he or she quietly slips the bow into a special holster or gently lays it on the music stand. But the fury of Garrison's inspiration, and maybe his overall fury, is such that he has no time for such niceties. It's as if he's saying, "I don't need your bow and the European classical tradition it represents to make MY music." After the bow hits the floor, there's a moment of stunned silence as he starts plucking, and then an ovation. If he had been in the American South in 1962, perhaps he would have been booed off stage or worse, but the enlightened Parisian audience applauds.

The rest of Garrison's solo lasts less than a minute, but the gauntlet had been firmly thrown. Years of oppression and pain are kicked to the curb with a bit of wood and horsehair. The way I hear it, he could not have made a bolder statement if he had snapped the delicate wood over his knee. This is our music, he seems to be saying, and we will play it the way we choose. It doesn't get more punk than that, and if the moment seems microcosmic, revolutions and even wars have been sparked with smaller tinder.

Jimmy Garrison's career was relatively quiet after Coltrane's death, but he certainly made some noise as a member of Coltrane's great quartet. Coltrane, who set so much in motion, was only 40 when he died. Today would have been his 88th birthday. 




I'd love to know who took the spectacular picture I used to illustrate this post. Let me know if you know!

Celebrate Bolan

Marc Bolan was, if anything, defined by his contradictions as both a musician and a man. A model who became a dyed-in-the-hemp hippie. One of rock's greatest creators of gleaming seven-inch slabs of three minute perfection, who often extended the songs to great length in concert with long guitar solos and Dionysian percussion jams. A generous man to his fans whose ego often destroyed close relationships when he needed them the most.

The ups and downs of the Marc Bolan story are the stuff of rock and roll legend. From Tyrannosaurus Rex and the underground, to the Top Of The Pops and T.Rexstasy, then straight down to a morass of drugs, drink, and a sometimes quixotic quest for continued chart success. Naturally, according to the strictures of storytelling, there would have to be a return to form, which Marc accomplished in 1977, partially by aligning himself with the burgeoning British punk scene. He connected with bands like The Damned and The Sex Pistols based more on his acknowledgment of the roots of rock and roll in their sound, than to any real understanding of their feelings of nihilism and disenfranchisement. Never mind - the connection and mutual respect between Bolan and the punks was genuine and good for the careers of all involved.

While Marc was certainly capable of pandering, he didn't punk up his sound on his last album, Dandy In The Underworld, which was released while he was touring England with The Damned as the opening act. He just wrote some good songs, especially the towering title track, I Love To Boogie, and The Soul Of My Suit. While the album was well-received by critics, it didn't exactly set the charts alight.

For his next single, he decided to release Celebrate Summer and while still not a punk song, there were definitely nods to his new buddies in the joyful tune. With a briskly chugging beat and a melody straight out of 1957, the track was a simple invitation to engage in the behavior promised by the title. Unless you're a complete curmudgeon, it's hard not to smile at catchphrases like "Summer is heaven in 77," and "Summer's not a bummer, it's a stunner, and it's now!" He also rhymes dance, romance and chance, in case you're wondering. As for the nods to the musical revolution of 1977, in one lyric, he bemusedly warns "Hey little punk, forget all that junk," - likely the message to Rat Scabies, et al, was "Lighten up!" - and for the guitar solo Bolan abandons his usual liquid style for a five second blast of noise. Perhaps he was borrowing from Captain Sensible or he could have been harking back to a decade prior when, as a member of John's Children, he often let loose barrages of atonality from a Gibson SG.

Celebrate Summer, a fairly simple song and no great chart hit, proved to be Bolan's last single: on September 16th, 1977, barely a month after its release, he died in a tragic car accident. The end of summer is always bittersweet and, with Bolan's death, Celebrate Summer became the perfect soundtrack for that time of the year. So take a little chance on a quick romance and dance to Celebrate Summer - in memory of Marc and summer itself - as soon as possible.



This piece originally appeared in issue two of #flatoutfucked, a black & white photocopied fanzine published by the estimable Michael James Hall, proprietor of Marketstall Records, and a fine musician himself.

Immersed In Become Ocean

Helga Davis makes everyone feel at home.

When I walked into The Greene Space on Friday night for the John Luther Adams Become Ocean listening event hosted by Q2 Music, Helga Davis greeted me like an old friend. That's partly because we are, and partly because that's just who she is and The Greene Space is practically her second home. The seats for the sold out event were arranged in pods facing in every direction and the ones in the center of the room were already filled. "Sit anywhere," Helga told me conspiratorially, "just not in front of a speaker. Or in the center." The engineers at Greene had apparently spent hours tweaking the sound so that nearly every spot would have the full benefit of the surround sound. As I gazed around, marveling at the herd instinct and wondering where I should fit myself in, she invited me to sit next to her - decision made.

This would not be my first time hearing the monumental one-movement work. While I wasn't lucky enough to attend the New York premiere at Carnegie Hall last spring, I have been listening to the recording for the last few weeks and it has already become an integral part of my musical life. While it's not quite quiescent enough to be classified as ambient music, Become Ocean does have some of the qualities I associate with Brian Eno's genre landmarks like On Land, in that you can pay full attention to it or you can just sort of let it exist in the same space as you. Also like Eno's work, it has the ability to transform your environment, a sculpture in sound that rearranges the air around you.

While I would hate to assign any utility to this masterpiece, I can say that it's made my commute transpire in an almost otherworldly fashion. I glide through the streets, stairs, elevators, subways, as if at some distance, encapsulated in Adams's meticulous construction.

Despite being scored for a large orchestra that's been divided into three semi-autonomous groups, Become Ocean is a remarkably unified piece. While I can pick out different instruments it's almost as if most of the time the orchestra is the instrument. The music seems to arise from nowhere at first, a resonance with a colorful pattern at its core. It crests and subsides, not quite reaching full volume until seven minutes in, a moment of masterful control on the part of both Adams and the Seattle Symphony under Ludovic Morlot's direction.

Nearing the 10 minute mark, that inner pattern becomes more prominent, an endless arpeggio that moves from instrument to instrument, as the volume gradually drops to near silence at 14:05. Rising up again, ever so slowly, the music seems to pick up more motive force, ascending and falling in a rhythm of slow breaths, harps and horns interacting beautifully, until there is an almost frightening surge of sound near the halfway point of our journey. Quiescence returns, but with a slight edge - even at its softest Become Ocean always moves with purpose.

There is another period of near silence at 28:00 when the process of surging and ebbing begins again, but always feeling organic, not formulaic. There's a double climax at around 35:00, loud, but not overwhelming enough to push you out of the music. The final seven minutes move you toward the end of the work with calm assurance. When it does end, you'll wish it hadn't and you'll wonder where 42 minutes went.

Become Ocean is essentially what used to be called a tone poem: a work of a certain length, often with a programmatic aspect, that does not follow symphonic form. While some may associate it with minimalism - or even romanticism, with its focus on the sublime - I get no sense of musical ideology while listening. The music is just is there, perfect, discrete and inevitable. There is, however, an ideology of a different sort behind the composer's intent. The quote from Adams at the top of the press release states: "Life on this earth first emerged from the sea. As the polar ice melts and the sea level rises, we humans find ourselves facing the prospect that once again we may quite literally become ocean."

As you can imagine from that statement, and the conceptual and compositional rigor of Become Ocean, John Luther Adams is a serious man. He even looks serious, lean and ascetic, with close-cropped hair. Fortunately, during two short interviews with Helga Davis before and after listening to Become Ocean, he also proved to have an easy laugh and a twinkle in his eye. "It's a global warming piece," he stated firmly before going on to say that he wanted it both ways, hoping that someone with absolutely no idea of his intent would find their way into the music and get something out of it. Quite remarkably, he also told us that "not a note changed" between the world premiere in Seattle, the Carnegie concert, and the studio. Overall, the process of writing Become Ocean had less revision than any of his other works, which seems to fit with the way I experienced it.

He also described his deep commitment to recordings, indicating that since you can't sit in the middle of the orchestra at Carnegie Hall, hearing the recording in surround sound, as we were about to do, was the ideal way to listen. It was certainly a remarkable and immersive experience, with all the work of the WNYC engineers paying off. While many people closed their eyes for periods during the playback (including Adams himself, sitting amongst us), only one or two people seemed to actually fall asleep. Those qualities of forward motion and almost narrative movement make Become Ocean anything but soporific - it's actually rather thrilling.

When it was over, Helga asked members of the audience for one word to describe the music. We heard "Monumental!" "Surrender," "Waves," "Leviathan," and a few more before she posed the same question to Adams. "Inexorable," was his answer, and he was exactly right. With that response, and based on my observation of Adams during the listening session, I almost get a sense of Become Ocean existing somewhat apart from him, as if he wasn't quite sure where it came from. During the interview beforehand, Helga mentioned that he had won the Pulitzer Prize for Become Ocean. "The piece won the prize," he interjected, somewhat pointedly. Just so - and it takes its place as one of the finest and most accessible works to receive that accolade. Cantaloupe Music will release the specially priced CD/DVD package on September 30th. You really should hear it.

 

The Love That Never Was

History is written by the winners, they say, but sometimes winning takes a very long time. For Arthur Lee, there was a trajectory that seemed fairly straightforward through the first three albums of his band Love, followed by decades of fits, starts and blind alleys. But the fact is that little of that had to do with the actual music. And, besides, the cream always rises to the top. Since 1995, the primacy of Arthur Lee and Love has continued to grow, as both a hidden influence on the past and a more obvious one on contemporary musicians.

Now, thanks to the intrepid work of the founders of High Moon Records, we have Black Beauty, an important missing link in the canon now available for all to hear. But first a brief moment of context. The third Love album, Forever Changes is a lushly arranged suite of phantasmagoric songs, a stunning accomplishment that ranks with the best records of the rock era. It is also an anomaly in the work of Arthur Lee. Keep in mind that Love first burst on the scene with an almost punk take on Burt Bacharach's Little Red Book and that their biggest chart hit was 7 And 7 Is, a furious rocker. At the time, Forever Changes sold poorly, which you can blame on philistines, lack of touring - or maybe on the fact that much of the "rock" in the Love recipe to which listeners had become devoted had been drained out of the sound.

While I treasure Forever Changes as much as the next guy, I also love Four Sail, the album that came after, where Lee convened a new version of the group and unleashed some of his most blistering music to date. Hendrix became an obvious sonic antecedent, but considering the fact that Jimi's first appearance on wax was as a hired gun on a session produced by Lee in 1965, one Lee came by honestly.

Between Lee's own eccentricity and the volatility of the music biz it's only natural that there would be a great lost album to resurrect. Also due to eccentricity and volatility, it's natural that the question of whether it's a Love album at all, or an Arthur Lee solo album, would need to be raised in the excellent and comprehensive liner notes. The most definitive answer is that since Lee was willing to release it in 1973 as a Love album then it is one. Also, while the contributions of Bryan MacLean and the other members on the first three albums shouldn't be discounted, it's clear that Lee is the dominant architect of their sound and all that followed.

So what do we get on Black Beauty, after the years of searching and the extensive work reclaiming good sound from a fragile 35 year old acetate, the only source available? Besides the technical aspects, executed with unbeleivable dedication and love, High Moon has also outdone themselves with the CD packaging, housing the disc (a limited edition of 5,000) in a little bound book containing the aforementioned liner notes and dozens of fab photos. I'm sure the vinyl (released in 2012) is just as well done, but they've also also found a few bonus tracks to beef up the original 10 songs.

The opener, Young & Able (Good & Evil) is a bluesy burner that Lee called his "civil rights song," but he was probably being somewhat tongue in cheek as the lyrics mainly refer to the rainbow coalition of females that he would like to get with. Musically, the song immediately shows the chemistry he had with his new band, with guitarist Melvan "Wonder" Whittington spraying off hot leads that mesh perfectly with Lee's rhythm guitar, and bassist Robert Rozelle and drummer Joe Blocker firmly in the pocket. The sound is a bit raw, but still dimensional, with a nice feeling of the room surrounding the players.

Midnight Sun keeps things fiery, with an epic quality that owes a little to Jimi's Axis (Bold As Love), but with no lack of conviction and passion. Can't Find It is a gorgeous ballad, with one of Lee's greatest vocal performances, so natural and vulnerable that it hits you right here. His sadness and confusion are given a different voice in Whittington's alternately weepy and explosive guitar. "Every time I cry my heart out/And every time I play the fool/There's gotta be something in this lonely world for me/But I can't find it." This is pure Arthur Lee, undefended and pleading for understanding and acceptance. As usual he finds the answer in the music; the next song, Walk Right In, is based on a 1929 song by Gus Cannon and his Jug-Stompers, a simple invitation to "Walk right in and sit right down."

Skid is also from a source other than Lee's pen, a product of a one-time collaboration between Riley Racer (Love's road manager) and poet Angela Rackley. Its minor key hue is perfect for Lee and Racer's dobro fills out the sound, while Whittington provides floating accents that are exactly right. One of the biggest surprises of the record is Beep Beep, which marries one of Lee's sing-song melodies to a Caribbean approach. It sounds not unlike a song by The Equals and the chorus ("Beep beep, slow down man 'cause you're going too fast") might be a joking reference to Lee's automotive style. In any case, it's delightful, with harpsichord and steel drums seamlessly incorporated into the track, a rare moment of almost pure levity. Could've been a hit!

Stay Away is a menacing strut with all the cowbell you could want and Lee giving maximum sneer. Lonely Pigs shows the versatility of this edition of Love, with an almost proggy flavor to the refrain. It's an ode to the LAPD, who used to follow Lee around whenever he drove anywhere - both a price of success and a curse of racism, themes that underscore nearly everything here. Lee also makes a rare appearance on lead guitar, playing the solo in a beautiful, liquid tone. See Myself In You is another Lee special, all mid-tempo yearning with an impassioned vocal and and a power that belies its running time of just over three minutes. Strangely, the album closes with Product Of The Times, a live cut from 1970 that features an entirely different band. However, its barnstorming energy jibes with what comes before and inadvertently demonstrates the overall consistency of Lee's music.

Make no mistake, this IS the great lost Love album and any fan of the band that can look beyond the lacy filigree of Forever Changes should grab it immediately. If you're a vinyl junkie, go ahead and purchase it in that format. While the bonus tracks on the CD are definitely an added value, I'm not sure they're essential beyond the needs of completists. The first is the title song from Thomasine & Bushrod, a cinematic obscurity from the redoubtable Max Julien and an awkward fit for Lee. There's also 21 minutes of interview excerpts and three nearly concurrent live performances featuring the Black Beauty band with the addition of John Sterling on guitar. Anybody who's listened to the album won't need much convincing that these players could deliver on stage.

The last extra song is a take on Tom T. Hall's L.A. Blues recorded in 1996 with a band called Ventilator. It's OK, but hardly the sound I want echoing in my head when the album is over. Even so, High Moon have performed a real service with Black Beauty. Get on their mailing list - maybe they'll take on the first official reissue of Real To Reel, the horn-drenched funky soul album Lee delivered to RSO records in the wake of Black Beauty being shelved, and yet another lost gem from the annals of Love.

 

Take A Ride With DeSoto

Taking a left turn can be a risk for any artist, especially one in the earlier stages of their career. But if done convincingly enough, with complete sincerity - nay, the dreaded authenticity - left turns become the career and the artist can develop a following of people who will go where they go without hesitation. I suspect that's what will happen with Matthew Silberman's new project, DeSoto.

Two years ago, Silberman released Questionable Creatures, an excellent forward-thinking jazz record featuring well-composed tunes and intense solos. There was also a cinematic bent to his approach - stories were being told through the music, sometimes illustrated with short films. That narrative thrust is the connection with DeSoto's first release, Sense Of Space, which he envisions as "A psychedelic journey down the Pacific Coast Highway while bumping The Chronic." 

While the title refers to the cosmos, it's really inner space we're traversing here. The first track, It's OK To Laugh, starts with echoing chimes and a heartbeat of percussion. A woman's voice speaks to us, half heard phrases that compete with the dirge-like melody of layered oboes (played by Rob Mosher), sometimes answered by a robotic voice. The phrases rise in the mix and gradually resolve into the statement that "We're just high-tech monkeys hurling through space at 1000's of miles per hour on a big wet rock..." OK to laugh? Is there really any other response?

Glowing Grey's clanking percussion starts up like an old train, soon joined by flute and Silberman's elegiac sax, slightly reminiscent of Vangelis's sleazy Blade Runner soundscapes. The drums pick up steam as the song progresses, slowly accreting to an almost funky, tribal beat. Silberman shows some real studio chops here as his sax seems to shoot of streams of sound that echo through the mix. Martial Meditations is almost purely ambient, but melodic like something from side two of Bowie's "Heroes." There's just a touch of day-glo Miami Vice aftermath to it - the shootout over, Crockett and Tubbs observe the wreckage - that injects some welcome levity.

Tripped brings the beat back, a rainswept slow jam that Creed Taylor could get behind, while Ancient Dialogue features found vocals and goes full-on drum'n'bass with buzzing snares and jackhammer bass drums. Roni Size - the field is yours to regain! Tree In The Wind is the sound of hope after rain, plucked harmonics and suspended chords inducing a sense of calm and uplift. 

But it's not so simple. Wednesday brings a sense of uncertainty, with a spare groove, multi-tracked saxes and questioning chords. It builds to a kind of a crescendo, the drums beginning to slam, and then deliquesces, each instrument taking its leave, leaving you with you. But are you the same?