Macnie World

From Baby Dodd’s tumbling his way through “Spooky Drums” to Han Bennink getting giddy on Tempo Comodo, I’ve long been intrigued by the choices a percussionist makes when he or she sets up shop alone. Over the course of three discs Ches Smith has come up with some intriguing turns. Away from noted collaborators such as Marc Ribot and Tim Berne, and under the moniker Cong For Brums, he’s melded his skills at the trap set with his yen for electronics and other percussion instruments. The resultant array of soundscapes are as logical and gorgeous as they are abstract and hermetic. The three on this latest outing are titled “Death Chart,” “Birth Chart,” and “Conclusion: That’s Life.” Using lessons from such mentors as Pauline Oliveros and Alvin Currin picked up during his studies at Mills College, the NYC drummer builds a narrative arc that includes moments of Morse Code mixed with flourishes of doom metal. He calls ‘em etudes, but you can call ‘em the most well-plotted cris de coeur ever - even the bleeps nicked from Pac Man.

Smith, a lanky dude who plays a somewhat tiny drum set featuring a mile-high crash cymbal, recorded Psycho Predictions live, and its improvised design has a deliberate feel. That’s a plus. It may seem like a parade of textured thwacks and buzzes, but each segue does a good job of leading the music away from randomness. “I’m trying to find a way to connect the three instruments compositionally,” he says of the drums, vibes, and electronics. “I had this whole thing mapped out harmonically, but it came together differently than what I had imagined when I set out.” There are giddy passages with a Raymond Scott feel, luminous passages with an Cluster feel, and there’s a moment or two of good old Baby Dodds as well. Smith may do strong work with such associates as Mary Halvorson and Xiu Xiu, but he has no problem creating a load of eloquence on his own. 

In a recent DownBeat cover story pianist Robert Glasper says that he’s basically looking for trouble by blending hip-hop, improv and swing, and that he’s got no problem with what people think of the resultant chemistry on his new album because jazz needs “a big-ass slap.” Black Radio does indeed entwine the three elements above, but it would be hard to deem its music as a radical shift or a defiant statement that rebuffs decades of orthodoxy. Grooves are prominent, echoes of ‘70s R&B bubble up, rhymes are dropped by notable MCs, and soulful vocal tracks are nudged to the forefront. As a collage of modern urban moves, it really works. There’s an enticing flow that starts at Eryka Badu’s glide through Coltrane’s “Afro Blue,” curves through some Lupe Fiasco thoughts about “the transformation of niggas,” veers towards philosophical pillow talk from Meshell Ndegeocello, and winds up with a kaleidoscopic refraction of “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” It’s all plush, pretty, and mildly engaging, but as it plays out, you never feel the sting of that slap Glasper’s referencing.

Maybe that’s for the best. Jazz is a music of nuance just as much as it is a music of exclamation. And with the declamation of MCs getting most of the attention, the subtleties of hip-hop are often under-appreciated. The canny architectural design that gives Black Radio its shape employs plenty of dreamy funk that drifts from place to place and offering a sizable scope. At separate junctures, it allows Lalah Hathaway and Ledisi a chance to bring their own blend of church and boudoir into a romantic realm that conjures Massive Attack’s shimmering ballads.

Ultimately it’s flash that’s missing from the formula. Hip-hop’s most kinetic rhymes are energizers, part of the rhythm section themselves. Between all the vocal cooing and rounded tones of the Fender Rhodes, there’s something a tad too mellow about the program. That said, it is the most natural stylistic confluence the leader has created thus far, and its pleasures are many. I’d just like to hear a bit more animation. I bet Glasper’s got a hell of a party record in him yet.