Jazz and the Ambiguity of Influence, Pt. 21: Unsung Kip Hanrahan & 80s Creativity
The 80s were my time for music. And I can assure you there was much more going on than big shoulder pads, asymmetrical haircuts, and metallic synth sounds. It truly was a great and creative time, including for jazz, and that's what this essay is about. I've always been passionate about music, from high school through to today, but in 80s I lived and breathed it. This was in Denver and I was playing in a band and going out to hear live music many nights a week. We didn't think of it as the 80s, just the time when we were deep into something we loved. It could have been any time, any place. Eons ago or continents away. My two music Bibles of the time were the Village Voice and Musician Magazine. There was no one point of view or aesthetic ideology in these fine pubs, no sense of needing to be new and correct. If anything, the vibe was to be open to everything, because the age of doctrinal succession was over. Case in point: the punks had had a scorched earth policy about wiping away any evidence of the hippies and classic rock. But that was blip. Before long all of the punks who actually loved music moved on. Look at the Clash. After their initial splash as the ultimate punks, they wasted no time embracing world music, reggae, the emerging hip hop sounds, and, yes, even classic rock. Think London Calling, Sandinista, and Combat Rock.
In jazz, all of the previous incarnations now existed at once. I think this attitude of coexistence and anything goes is what was meant by postmodernism. But that term can also have frivolous connotations, like everything is silly, or to be made sport of. No, in a deeper sense, the proper understanding of postmodernism is that all dogmas have been swept away. One can look at all aesthetic movements, and indeed all social movements, as a progression of "shoulds." Even "free" jazz required one to not do certain things, like recognizable harmonic or rhythmic patterns. Punk rock was meant to wipe away all the shoulds of strong technique and high ambition for the music. But it became its own doctrine, which is why the Clash's movement into more wide-ranging music-making was so radical. Ultimately, art and life itself attain their highest state and expression when they function as should-free zones.
So what was happening in the jazz scene in the 80s? When I think 80s jazz I see someone like the saxophonist David Murray as an emblematic figure. He is about my age, so he emerged in the 70s but was everywhere in the 80s playing music that had absorbed all the lessons of Coltrane and Coleman but was expressed with great joy de vivre and a strong commitment to groups expressing themselves as collectives in which strong individual identities merged to create a greater whole. So if the music pushed boundaries it did so while achieving certain jazz ideals. Murray's scene overlapped with the scene of the great figures of the AACM (Association for the Advancement of Creative Musicians) from Chicago, which emerged in the 60s but came to full flower in the 80s. ECM records in Europe was stronger than ever, establishing European jazz as a permanent force and influence in the music. Traditional bop and post-bop jazz had been at a low ebb as a "movement" in jazz for quite a while, but it was still played at every jazz club in every city every night. It just wasn't an acknowledged "thing" until Wynton Marsalis and other big time players decided to celebrate the classic jazz verities of people like Dexter Gordon and Charlie Parker and pre-electric Miles. Nevertheless, Wynton's decision to go in that direction was huge (if at times frustratingly dogmatic), as was Keith Jarrett's decision to form the Standards Trio with Gary Peacock on bass and the peerless Jack DeJohnette on drums.
With that tour d'horizon complete, let us now focus on one musician who to this day is little known but who, for me, exemplifies the 80s spirit in its purest form: the New York percussionist, composer, producer, and auteur, Kip Hanrahan. He was part of the now-legendary, nay mythical, downtown NYC scene, which, as the decade progressed, became coded as the Knitting Factory Sound, named for the great lo-do anything-goes music club. Essentially, mash ups of funk, punk, world beat, noise, and jazz were everywhere. Of all the great figures -- Arto Lindsay, John Lurie, Bill Laswell -- Kip Hanrahan stands equal and maybe even above. Quite simply, he is one of the most underrated figures in all of jazz. I still have not heard any other music that sounds even remotely like his. And is this not the jazz ideal? To have an individual sound and aesthetic of one's own, which at once stands within and apart from tradition? And is this not the American ideal of Emerson and Thoreau? "If a man does not keep pace with his companions," mused Henry David, "perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer."
Hanrahan certainly did. Lots of 'em, in fact. Among the many things that distinguish Hanrahan, is his employment of raw and intense Afro-Caribbean percussion as the foundation of his music. Indeed, on 1983's Desire Develops an Edge (great title), I see no fewer than 11 percussionists and trap set drummers on board! These include legends of the discipline such as Jerry Gonzales (from the Bronx), Milton Cardona (from Puerto Rico), and Ignacio Berroa (from Cuba). This orientation is one that Hanrahan came by honest. Though of Irish-Jewish descent, he was raised in a Puerto Rican neighborhood in the Bronx. So he learned quickly that in Afro-Caribbean music, the percussion isn't just a little spice you sprinkle in there. No, it's the main course, or at least an equal partner with melody and harmony in what might constitute a square, satisfying meal. In the early days of multiethnic influence in jazz, a bongo drum might politely play along. But those days are gone. Why? Because to do it right, you've got to let the rhythm speak in full mathematical, multi-layered, exuberant fashion. This Hanrahan does.
An equally important part of Hanrahan's recipe is the participation of Cream's Jack Bruce on vocals, which he contributes to great effect. His vocals add pathos and tremendous human feeling. As we will see when we look at a few key tracks from Desire, this is crucial in so far as it enables the lyrics, which often essentially are abstract poetry, to come across like soul music as opposed to the "art music" that it actually is. This is the genius of Hanrahan's vision. Just as a side note, it's interesting to compare the post-Cream trajectories of Bruce and Eric Clapton. After albums like Layla, Clapton never really produced records that were that adventurous or creative. Instead he became a genius soloist and effective rock and blues interpreter. Bruce, on the other hand, ended up making music, such as his work with Hanrahan, that was wildly creative and boundary-pushing. Basically, he was a rock superstar for two years and a little-known avant garde musician for the rest of his career. You don't see that too often!
An equally crucial move by Hanrahan is to pair the electric bass of jazz master Steve Swallow with that of an additional bass player (or often Swallow playing a duet with himself), creating a harmonic foundation for the music that also functions as a conversation in and of itself. One bass line covers the low end and plays more sparely. Then Swallow, who is one of the very best electric bassists in all of jazz, plays at the upper end of the instrument in a more melodic manner that also includes chordal figures. The combination of basses is crucial to the creation of Hanrahan's unique sound-world. Swallow was also key in helping Hanrahan, who is not a schooled musician, to formalize the harmonic patterns and structures for the music. Like Bruce, he worked with Hanrahan on many records. Two other elements complete the Hanrahan aesthetic: the presence of "downtown" musicians like Arto Lindsay who bring an inside-outside perspective and the contributions of pure jazz virtuosos like Ricky Ford and the aforementioned David Murray as soloists. The names I've dropped here pertain in particular to Desire and its follow-up Vertical's Currency, but the template has remained the same as Hanrahan has continued to employ scores of creative musicians who span the worlds of rock, jazz, and Afro-Caribbean. Later he also added spoken word poetry from the likes of Ishmael Reed.
One key to understanding Hanrahan's art is that much of his training was in visual art and film. He even went to Paris in the 70s to assist on films from the likes of Jean Luc Godard. In his music he brings players together like actors, sets and sequences scenes, and pays a lot of attention to atmosphere and tone, which I argue is the most important aesthetic component of all. If that's in place and properly evoked, details within it don't have to be perfect; there's space for some pleasing messiness. Which keeps things from becoming boringly proper. So: given Hanrahan's approach to recording, the question that always arises for me is, considering that all his musicians are better than he is, how does he get them to follow his vision? (I often also wonder this about coaches in sports.) I'm guessing it's because he knows that's the case -- he respects each of them and recruited them to each bring their unique "thing" -- and because he has really great ideas. Think about it: it must be a blast to do something creative and unusual instead of playing just another conventional gig with tried and true song forms and the inevitable procession of solos. Then there is the matter of what we know as authority. Not as in being bossy or an egomaniac, but speaking with strong self belief born of experience, of deep knowledge and reflection, and of undefiled love for one's discipline. I suspect that's where Hanrahan is coming from.
Let's consider just a few songs from Desire to get a sense for things. I love how this double LP opens with a six-minute percussion-only track. Sharing the same name as the album, it is complex and rich, serving as a mission statement of sorts. Question: Why don't we listen to more percussion music? That's followed by the exhilarating "What Is This Dance, Any?," a shot of grooving salsa that is actually more conventional-sounding than most of the tracks to follow, though the title keeps it suitably cryptic. The other most highly syncopated cut on Desire is "(Don't Complicate) The Life (La Vie)." This one is in the style of Congolese soukous or highlife music. Itself influenced by Cuban music, soukous is tremendously buoyant and springy, propelled by slithery, scratchy guitar. In fact this may be the hottest track on the record: a dance number that features lyrics that no club music will ever feature, but should: "Don't complicate the life, life will complicate." Many of the tracks are more obscure, bearing little relation to any known song form (a trait that makes describing the music so difficult, since you can never say this sounds like that!). A good example is "Early Fall," which features poignant Jack Bruce vocals and Ricky Ford tenor sax over a free-floating bed of percussion, accented by dissonant chords from Arto Lindsay. The most representative track might be "Trust Me Yet." It moves forward over a funky stop-start bass "duet" from Swallow and features oblique, suggestive lyrics from Hanrahan. These include his sexually direct usage of the word "fuck" (as does the song "Her Boyfriend Assesses His Value and Pleads His Case"). Incredibly, these two songs were enough to cause the AllMusic reviewer to give the whole record just two stars, claiming it to be unbelievably vulgar. If that's how he feels, he needs to get out more and learn how people actually talk. Anyway, some sample lyrics: "The edge you always loved in me was you / You see it in everything I could have done." "This song could break down into rivers / This song could break down into shadows that were never there." "Every lover invents thousands of lovers / Every photo invents its own lies / Every lie invents thousands of truths / Every country invents its own skies."
Among my very favorite songs is "Nocturnal Heart (Coracao Noturno for John Stubblefield)," which serves as a perfect example of Hanrahan's unique aesthetic and which I have included as my featured video for this piece. Essentially it's a slow, sensual samba with majestic tenor sax work from John Stubblefield (who played with Mingus and other giants) and, once again, mightily affecting vocals from Jack Bruce. As I alluded to above, the key here is that the lyrics are mostly abstract but somehow made to fit the music by Bruce's investment of emotion into them. Actually it's more than that. Through some sort of voodoo the words come to mean something other than what they say, like code for the deep impetus of life itself. The key that unlocks the whole thing is the way Bruce sings the final four syllables of verse two, which he delivers deliberately and on the beat, speaking with conviction for all us fallen angels, and given earthly form by the Stubblefield sax that follows. Here are the lyrics in full:
My heart beats clearlyLike a line crossing each sentiment
Like each parallel unit to resent
Bleeding through each photograph
Spilling every content
Beneath the covered wound
My heart beats so clearly
My heart beats darkly
Like a song that won’t resolve
Like a snake you just can’t solve
Moving through each count
Clear like this low throbbing heat
Quiet like the moment of every beat
My heart beats so damn darkly
I've loved this recording of 40 years and will continue to love it for another 40, even though that means I'll be on the other side. And since different values obtain in the spirit world, I'm confident that Hanrahan will be a big star there.
BONUS TRACK
Reviewing what I just wrote I noticed a crucial omission, namely the heartfelt, mysterious "All Us Working Class Boys (for Jack Bruce)". That's the way this record is. Just as soon as you've declared one song to be your favorite or the best or most representative, another steps forward. Oh, great dialogical sax work from John Stubblefield and Ricky Ford. The piano accents are by Steve Swallow.
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