Chrome Hill: En Route (Clean Feed 683)
Not all Belgians drink beer at breakfast, not all Scandinavians play ethereal and introverted “Scandinavian” jazz. The seventh album of the Norwegian Chrome Hill, for instance, invites comparison with icons of Americana. This is to say that, while En Route is not without ambient and minimalist tinges, emotions lie at the surface of a story that is told in varying poetic ways, with senses of foreboding and catharsis predominantly featured.
While composer and guitarist Asbjørn Lerheim confronts us with the slightly eerie, psychedelic guitar wizardry of Climbing, which could very well serve as underpinning of the constant bewilderment of the lead character in David Lynch’s Eraserhead, he also gives free reign to saxophonist Roger Arntzen, who freely probes the open range of Desolation for signs of life.
Amongst spots of spacious prairie jazz, the anthemic title track stands out as a piece of twisted power-rock that bends dreams out of shape at nightmarish will. No more than a quartet is at work on En Route, with a bit of electronics thrown in, which strikes a good balance between composition and spontaneity, between Joshua trees and Norwegian wood.
Kasper Rietkerk: The Happy Warrior (KRR 001)
You want to get away from the racket and the noise, you’re fed up with screens and bleeps and if there’s something you can do without it’s the drivel at the coffee machine. It’s much too crowded in town and everybody gets on each other’s nerves. The stench from the sewer is overwhelming and every five minutes there’s a Boeing 747 flying over your roof and you’re starting to understand Dutchman-in-London Kasper Rietkerk, who decides to search for the antidote – to blow silkily and without frills, to be anathema to machoism and all about expression and the poetry of line and intonation.
‘This method allows for freedom but, praiseworthy as it may be, occasionally leaves me lost in the woods, slightly indifferent to rippling water music’
It’s a praiseworthy approach from young Rietkerk, whose The Happy Warrior is the follow-up to The Island from 2024, both relying heavily on stalwarts of the British scene. His rapport with guitarist John Parricelli is striking, a blend of melancholic tenor and soprano sax and warm-blooded guitar lines, delicately laced with volume control, pervading pieces that, intriguingly, are not so much full-blown melodies but sketches designed for soft-spoken, lyrical input. This method allows for freedom but, praiseworthy as it may be, occasionally leaves me lost in the woods, slightly indifferent to rippling water music.
I do, however, get my kicks, enamoured with both Lost In Glow and Blueberry Pancake, which, respectively, thrive on the sentiment of back-porch neo-country music and film-noir soundtracks. This is a different ballgame than the drone of The Ceiling. So, to conclude, there’s something for everyone on this release from the increasingly progressive Rietkerk.
Wake up, Mal!
Located at the IJ river, Bimhuis is a fancy place with a breathtaking view, a cosy arena with great acoustics justly admired by clientele and musicians alike. Once or twice a week, when I have some work to do at the other end of the old city, I cycle down De Oude Schans, the place where it all began for the legendary 50-year-old club.
Although I was only one year old at its birth and a toddler when it started to command attention as hub of the European improv scene, I visited the ol’ Bimhuis quite a few times in the 1990s, when it still was nothing more than a cold place of concrete walls and pillars and a band-aid bar managed by men and women whose who-the-fuck-are-you-smirk was glued to their faces with Bison kit. Men with faces like gravediggers mingled with women that scared the shit out of John Wayne. It was the kind of pre-hipster, pre-gentrification joint that took pride in serving meatballs and pedestrian pipes of beer.
One evening the programme featured a top-notch veteran group consisting of pianist Mal Waldron, soprano saxophonist Steve Lacy, trombonist (and part-time comedian) Roswell Rudd and bassist Reggie Workman. I have forgotten who was drummer-of-service. It was a great performance, sounds emanating from the unadorned pit below, where the musicians struggled like gladiators in a colosseum. I admired Waldron’s style. Long ago he’d made the leap from quirky hard bopper to Cubist rebel-rouser. At that time, Waldron perfected the role of obsessive minimalist.
This evening, his delicate, repetitive vignettes of innocence and madness were quite enchanting, a suspenseful battle with complete silence. A guy in a leather jacket in front of me had differing views and suddenly hollered out of the blue “Wake up, Mal!” An incredibly rude gesture. Pissed off, I impulsively poured my beer down his neck. The guy froze. He turned around and you could see his mind working like a squeaky carrousel. He saw a little guy with a crazy smile and an empty pipe of beer. He emptied his on my head and gave me a solid bear-hug that seemed to last forever. That seemed to be the end of it. All square in a house that was hip in most peculiar ways.
