Magic surrealism

Derek Bailey's transporting guitar

by Ted Drozdowski

You could call Derek Bailey the King of Pling, if you're prone to onomatopoeia. But that'd be a bit too glib a description of the man who's done for (and to) the guitar what jazz giant Cecil Taylor did for piano. In the mid '60s, well into a career as an in-demand session player, Bailey loosened the shackles of tonality, time, texture, and tune to begin an exclusive relationship with freely improvised music, establishing a beautiful barnyard vocabulary of his own.

This move cut into his music hall, radio, TV, and studio gigs considerably. Yet some 30 years later, in his own mid 60s, Bailey is now an acknowledged grandfather of the contemporary avant-garde. Save for a period of illness two years ago, he's still hot-footing into the studio and onto the stage, leaving a prolific trail of recordings. And the same curiosity that led him to map his own musical path curls like a happy sneer in his most recent CDs. Especially in his drums 'n' bass album with D.J. Ninj, his noise fest with Pat Metheny called The Sign of Four (Knitting Factory Works), and two just-available solo outings from the '80s, Drop Me Off at 96th (Scatter) and the reissued Music and Dance (Revenant).

The disc with D.J. Ninj, guitar, drums 'n' bass (Avant) is among his finest recorded playing. (Check the series of Company albums on his own Incus label for other derring-do.) Bailey's freewheeling roar and DJ Ninj's densely programmed electro-beats benefit each other. In a sense, the guitarist had been practicing for this pairing for a while. Before meeting Ninj, he'd been fascinated by the drums 'n' bass music he'd heard on radio at home in London, and had taken to jamming along.

Bailey brings an organic, unpredictable character to the pat sound and rhythm of Ninj's electronica, engaging the brain. Ninj handles the rump and gives Bailey a steady rhythmic base -- which most of his work lacks -- that makes the CD accessible for civilians. What's best is hearing how playing over a solid beat affects Bailey. He stretches to melodic heights, spitting out warm and curious little tunes throughout all six tracks. Most of his melodies last just a few seconds, but they're engaging. He also abandons his usual clean tone for aggressive distortion and piles up heaps of fast and nasty licks, so gritty they seem nearly out of character. It's a raw and lively, wholly fun set.

The Sign of Four, three CDs cut live at Manhattan's avant harbor the Knitting Factory and at Sound on Sound Studios last December 12 through 15, is also raw, but not much fun. At least for the listener. The "Four" here are Bailey, Metheny, and percussionists Greg Bendian and Paul Wertico. They seem to enjoy raising a ruckus. It's just too much ruckus. Save for a few passages there's a shortage of dynamics and melodies. The music is a big, ugly blood clot. Editing to a single CD would have helped. I'm also reticent to accept Metheny's second calling as a dirty improviser. To me, it sounds as if he were copping Sonny Sharrock's shit without giving the late, great man props.

The most pleasing things happen when the volume drops and details emerge: a guitar that sounds like a vacuum cleaner sneaks through the mix, eddies of feedback clang and swirl away, drums and tapped, muted strings dance an arm-in-arm softshoe.

For Bailey at his most typically Bailey, consult the solo sets. Drop Me Off at 96th is wonderful. It's witty and provocative -- Bailey at his intellectual and emotional peak. The melodies tipple through, electric sproings leap out when unexpected, his crisp picking (Bailey hand-makes his plectrums with a dental compound) defines every detail of his crooked path, pulling you hypnotically into a world where the sound of a guitar can be as intriguing and deep as a novel by Gabriel García Márquez. Let's call it magic surrealism.

Listening to the way Bailey's notes spring, tap, and sway, you can understand why dancers are among his favorite collaborators. Music and Dance offers two nearly half-hour improvisations with butoh-disciplined Min Tanaka. And Bailey takes pains in the liner notes to point out that this is not music made to dance to but a collaboration of partners bobbing and weaving together. Since butoh dancers don't wear tap shoes (Bailey has more recently embarked on a series of video-taped improvs with a tap dancer), we can only imagine Tanaka's role. But Bailey's sonic ballet is enough.