More Than What's Happening
The wonders of Winter Jazzfest in an age ablaze
Anna Butterss, the heart of the trance-collage improv collective SML, began their Winter Jazzfest show at the Music Hall of Williamsburg with a personal disclosure. “We’re all in a state of shock,” Butterss, an electric bassist who originally hails from Adelaide but resides, like the rest of the group, in Los Angeles, avowed. “Between us, we probably know 20 people who have lost their homes.”
Butterss — speaking late on Saturday, as the Palisades and Eaton fires both raged uncontained — then paused for a moment, seemingly unsure about what else to say. What followed was a humble invitation: “Join us in keeping our community in mind as we make this music tonight.”
This was a tethering reminder in the whirl of Winter Jazzfest’s Marathon weekend, a jostling array of sound options spread across Lower Manhattan and a swath of Brooklyn. For me and no doubt others swarming the scene on Friday and Saturday nights, it spoke to a cognitive dissonance in squaring the fizzy pleasures of the fest against the distant, distressing horror of the news.
But keeping community in mind, to borrow Butterss’ phrase, was not a problem. I actually consider it a prime attraction of Winter Jazzfest, even if the festival’s core function more readily hums in the key of commerce. As usual, WJF unfolded against a larger smorgasbord timed to coincide with the annual APAP Conference: GlobalFest, Jazz Congress and the Unity Festival were among the other offerings. I kept my focus on the fest at hand, distracted only by a family group chat — my sister and auntie, both in the L.A. area, were sharing worried updates — and other alerts on my phone.
SML, whose debut Small Medium Large was among last year’s welcome surprises, modeled cooperative attunement throughout a mesmerizing show. Analog synth drones gave way to a light rustle of birdsong; an electronic loop idly morphed, amoeba-like, until a startling yet logical superbloom into a loose-limbed Afrobeat groove. From my balcony perch above stage right, I could see the thicket of wires plugged into Jeremiah Chiu’s modular console, which he tended with knob-twiddling fixation. Josh Johnson deployed his own looping magic, his alto saxophone unspooling not only alluring tendrils of melody but also a hiccuping rhythmic foil.
Preceding SML at MHOW was Arooj Aftab, not with the improvisatory cohort Love in Exile but rather her own incredible band — stocked with musicians, like Celtic harpist Maeve Gilchrist, who are a good deal badder than they need to be. Aftab was her usual magnetic self, oscillating between celestial vocals and sardonic banter. (“You can dance!” she quipped during a vamp heading into “Mohabbat,” the best-known song from her breakthrough Vulture Prince. “If you’re meditating, it’s just racist.”)
One of Aftab’s two collaborative equals in Love in Exile, pianist Vijay Iyer, created a trancelike air in his stunning concert with trumpeter Wadada Leo Smith. This came during Friday’s Manhattan Marathon, at Performance Space New York, a block away from Tompkins Square Park. The set opened in rumbling calm, as Iyer sustained a low atonal tremolo over which Smith — seated with his horn and a Harmon mute, which he quickly ditched for the full commitment of an open bell pointed toward a floor mic — projected his sound in a focused beam. Soon Iyer turned to a Fender Rhodes, which he used to fashion an aqueous soundscape, disquieting and deep.
It occurs to me that so far in this Winter Jazzfest report, I’ve been focused on music of recursive or accretive logic, rather than any standard derivation of form. That’s largely a function of which way the wind blew, because it’s not as if the bands digging into harmony and rhythm were slouching. For example: violinist Jenny Scheinman, leading the all-star unit from her 2024 album All Species Parade, brought a springy, swingy energy to her tunes, inspired by the natural world and its anthropogenic perils.
As ever, bassist Tony Scherr and drummer Kenny Wollesen struck the kind of no-nonsense rapport you’d want from any engine crew. Pianist Carmen Staaf and guitarist Steve Cardenas each drew their solos along an eloquent and steady line. And Scheinman’s warm, woodsy tone was an attraction in and of itself, especially on “House of Flowers,” one of the loveliest themes I heard throughout the fest.
Scheinman made a cameo on Saturday at the Mercury Lounge with the reunited Christian McBride Band, for a 20th anniversary nod to Live at Tonic. I caught the band as part of the Manhattan Marathon on Friday, when the guest was DJ Logic. It was as much of a blast as you’d expect — and a fond throwback, given that I was present for one of the shows documented on the triple album. (I later reviewed it for JazzTimes, and included it in the Essential Albums appendix in Playing Changes.)
Hearing the CMB in such close quarters, a few blocks away from the former Tonic, I was struck anew by how breezily the group handled the downshift from a hearty jazz-rock flex to a brisk post-bop fever. This happened most strikingly on “Say Something,” but it was a subtext of the whole show, which rejected the idea of fusion as some kind of alloy, and argued instead for an admixture, capable of disentangling on a dime.
I got some of that same vibe out of a triumphant debut by pianist Paul Cornish, leading an acoustic trio at Loove Labs in Williamsburg on Saturday. I’ve been a fan of his playing since first hearing him in person three years ago, and I’ll soon be writing about him at length. What I’ll say here is that Cornish, whose signing to Blue Note was announced several days before this show, is a talent poised to make his mark.
The trio that Cornish brought to WJF, with bassist Jermaine Paul and drummer Jonathan Pinson, also constitutes an index of modern excellence from the L.A. scene. After the show, I checked with Cornish and Paul, confirming that neither had lost their homes to wildfires. I didn’t have a chance to talk with Pinson, but I know he’s on the faculty at CalArts — alongside alto saxophonist Steve Lehman, whose house in Altadena was destroyed, and who led my Winter Jazzfest Marathon review last year.
Speaking of alto saxophonists residing in L.A., I mentioned Josh Johnson as a member of SML. I also saw him play his own set in a gallery-like room at Performance Space New York. He performed solo, equipped with his horn, a sample sequencer, and a cluster of effects pedals, which he deftly tapped with feet sheathed in argyle socks. His set drew from Unusual Object, another standout 2024 release: this crowd hooted with recognition at the synth thump and striated harmonizing of “Marvis.”
Later there came a cycling drift of lyrical phrases that I knew at once but couldn’t place. It turned out to be “There Comes a Time,” a 1971 cut by the Tony Williams Lifetime. The section that Johnson looped, with coolly focused deliberation, corresponded to the answering call in the melody, sung by Williams:
There comes a time to wake up to what’s happeningThere comes a time to get out of what’s happeningI love you more than what’s happeningI love you more
Days after this powerfully transporting experience, I learned that bassist and producer Paul Bryan, a key collaborator of Johnson’s on Unusual Object, had lost his home studio in the Palisades fire. According to an Instagram post by Aimee Mann, “Paul was just finalizing a list of equipment to renew his insurance but hadn’t sent it out yet, and so NOTHING was insured at the time of the fire.” Among the incalculable losses were an 1800s Steinway, a rare Chamberlain keyboard, and clutch of vintage basses, guitars and other gear. Of course, a home and a haven are also no more.
So Bryan, whose production credits also include Jeff Parker’s The New Breed and Suite For Max Brown, is one of the people Butterss alluded to during SML’s show. He joins a long and growing list of musicians in similarly dire circumstances, including Madlib, multireedist Benny Maupin, and saxophonist Hailey Niswanger. Tonight I saw a post from tenor saxophonist and bassoonist Ben Wendel, whom I heard throwing down with Kneebody at Brooklyn Bowl on Saturday; his parents’ house was destroyed.
My friend and former WRTI colleague Greg Bryant, who relocated to Los Angeles a little more than a week before this awful wildfire saga began, wrote a piece for us about the impacts on jazz musicians, including Lehman, and the efforts underway to help. Connecting the present catastrophe to our early path through the pandemic, Greg recalls: “Healing and recovery came by way of creativity, a supportive community, the exchange of knowledge, and the passage of time.”
None of that will come easy. But in the face of our conflagration, I want to live within the tender orbit of what Josh Johnson offered on Friday night, knowing most folks in the room probably wouldn’t know the reference. (Heck, even I struggled to place it.)
I love you more than what’s happening, he affirms anyway. I love you more.
And More
The photos on this post were taken by a few different people, notably the valiant
, whose Substack I’ve endorsed here before; and Dave Kaufman, a regular contributor to All About Jazz. I’m eternally grateful to both photographers — and want to tease a forthcoming crossover event with Jacob, who has been following Winter Jazzfest’s Artist In Residence, drummer Makaya McCraven, onstage and in and out of green rooms over the last four nights. I caught the entirety of McCraven’s midnight show at MHOW, and will be writing about it in concert with Jacob’s photo essay. Stay tuned!About “There Comes a Time.” The familiar melody haunted me enough that I showed my little video clip to several people the following morning, trying to identify the tune.
, jazz publicist extraordinaire turned artist manager and new Substacker, was the one who helped me to the source. Tonight I stumbled across this 2021 meditation on the song by poet and critic , who has recently been writing her way through the disaster. has also separately ruminated here on the subject. (I support both of these artists with paid subscriptions, btw, and recommend you do too.)As I said above, the Winter Jazzfest comprises a lot of action beyond the two Marathons. I was especially sorry to miss Strata-East Rising, an all-star tribute to the storied independent label, at (Le) Poisson Rouge on Monday night. At least I made it to a Strata-East listening party convened by concert organizer, friend and fellow critic Marcus J. Moore. There at the OJAS Listening Room in SoHo, I heard Marcus’ copy of The Waterbearers, a 1974 album by The Cosmic Twins (pianist Ron Burton and drummer John Lewis). With wildfires on my mind, I had plenty of time to contemplate what a waterbearer means. (With L.A. on my mind, I was grimly amused by the closing track, “One for O.J. (Simpson).”)
I alluded to the profusion of musical options in New York at this time of year. On Sunday night, after watching the Eagles stomp the Packers and then catching a bit of the Alternative Guitar Summit at Nublu, I dashed to the Village Vanguard for the Kris Davis Trio, which delivered the single most mind-blowing performance of the weekend. I’ve decided to give it my full focus in another post, coming soon (or soonish). Meanwhile, here’s what I had to say about the trio’s album, Running the Gauntlet, in The Best Jazz Albums of 2024.
It must be said: Brice Rosenbloom, creator and producer of Winter Jazzfest, has expertly steered the ship into its imperial era. Having attended most editions since the inaugural in 2005, I’m still blown away by the impact this festival has on the global jazz marketplace and discourse. My select itinerary and thematic focus in this post represent only a sliver of what this year’s fest had to offer.
Might I share this video of Makaya and band performing There Comes A Time at Big Ears 2019? https://youtu.be/r-qOq2HnmDQ