Mountain high
Cecil Taylor still scales the heights
by Ed Hazell
Twenty-one years ago, pianist Cecil Taylor made an album called Dark to
Themselves (Enja). Last year, he released an album called Always a
Pleasure (FMP). The shift of emphasis -- from darkness to pleasure -- seems
emblematic of the music he made last Thursday at the Regattabar. In his first
Boston-area visit since 1990, Taylor and his new trio -- with bassist Dominic
Duval and drummer Jackson Krall -- were as difficult, confrontational, and
uncompromising as any Taylor outfit. But the music was also less dark and
menacing, and more purely ecstatic, than in the past.
At 68, Taylor is a founding father of avant-garde jazz. He can still sustain a
high-energy level of intensity and invention for longer periods than almost any
pianist you can name. Still, at the Regattabar there were signs of age. His
gestures were broader and a shade slower. It's as if the blues textures and
atonal Monkish riffs of his earliest albums had returned, embedded in the
rhythmically freer style of his maturity. The growling bass-clef tone clusters
that support or interrupt his abstracted blues are clearly descendants of
Horace Silver and Bud Powell. On Thursday night, Taylor also sustained his
lyrical moments for longer periods than he has in the past. The influences of
Debussy and Ellington have never been more obvious. He also limited his poetry
recitals, and the ritualistic chanting and dancing that have often been the
prelude to performances in recent years were absent.
But if the pace has slowed a bit, Taylor remains jazz piano's greatest living
craftsman. For all the astonishing speed and variety of his lines, he executes
every unexpected aside, jolting stop, startling contrast, and wild leap with
absolute precision and clarity. Whether he's slamming the keys with his forearm
or pecking out a keyboard-spanning phrase, Taylor isn't just flailing at the
keys, he's consciously shaping and shading each grandiose passage.
For all his obsessive attention to detail, his sets tend to fall into one of a
handful of broad outlines. The first set was a landscape of buttes and mesas.
The music started before the club's recorded background music faded, with
Taylor pecking out diamond-bright notes, clustering them into three-note
phrases that he varied and extended to escalate the tension. Then with a
thunderclap chord he was off, scaling to the top of the set's first passage in
a series of sustained high-energy plateaus. The pace of his themes and
variations accelerated, with new material introduced and discarded at a
lightning pace.
Like pianist Art Tatum, Taylor loves to interrupt himself. He'd abandon the
logical development of his phrases for high-speed treble fireworks; he'd crash
to a sudden halt with cast-iron-heavy bass chords. The pattern repeated itself
several times for 50 minutes, the music rising swiftly, maintaining a furious
pace, then falling precipitously back. Eventually the peaks rose a bit less
high and for shorter periods, until the music was played out. Sometimes the
trio revealed breathtaking new vistas as they climbed upward. Sometimes the
experience felt more like bobbing in place on a stormy sea.
The second set was a slowly rising arch that held to its upward trajectory
from the very first notes. The music built to a peak, fell back slightly, built
up to a slightly higher pitch than the previous episode, fell back again,
continued to build. There was a sense of constant rising, a purposeful
elevation that climaxed with Taylor reading a poem. The set dissipated in some
of the loveliest -- it was almost serene -- music of the evening.
Bassist Duval and drummer Krall are contrasting but complementary players who
give this Taylor line-up its own personality. Krall's feinting and darting was
sometimes more decorative than propulsive. He added texture and color to the
ensembles, but his aerated contours also suggested melodies that ultimately
make him an equal partner in the music. Even when Krall seemed to go his own
way, a perfectly timed cymbal crash or bass-drum punctuation tied him back into
the ensemble. Duval, on the other hand, was a busy accompanist. He traveled the
full range of the bass, creating lines that tucked themselves neatly into
Taylor's or generating contrasting motion that added more depth and variety to
the music.
Taylor has always stressed the transcendental and spiritual qualities of his
music. Yet he's often seemed as intent on obliterating the physical world --
punishing the keyboard, severely testing his own mental and physical endurance
-- as on playing in a state of grace. His music is still the majestic, tragic,
exhausting, exhilarating experience it always has been. But on Thursday, after
more than 40 years of exorcising demons, he was more content to converse with
the angels.