Kevin Kanner

Ran into Kevin Kanner last nite. Apparently he’s in town for a brief spell. We reminisced and bitched and told stories you don’t repeat. That guy is such a great jazz drummer. And I mean jazz drummer.You could drop him into a Blue Note session two generations ago and he would swing those mothers like mad. He’s just got that thing, that blues thing, deep down, that goes back all the way to the beginning. He could play with Louis Armstrong in Chicago, I think, or with Lester Young in Kansas City. He could fill in for Jimmy Cobb or Tootie Heath or Art Taylor–especially Art Taylor–in a hard bop New York City. He wouldn’t play like them, he wouldn’t copy them–that’s not what jazz is about, mimicry–but he sure the hell could sit in when they had to sit out for some jazz player’s reason or another, better left unsaid. He could sit in and swing, really swing, and the cats would turn around and nod, just nod, and he’d know he was in the groove, in the pocket, solid. That’s Kevin Kanner. He’s back in New York City now, where his playing always fits in somewhere, uptown, downtown, Brooklyn, wherever the music is cooking. He’s doing well, since he plays more like a New York drummer, and less like one of our own. The players swing back there and experiment out here. Well they experiment back there too, obviously (that’s where it started!), but they also swing hard, way hard, which seems passe among the new jazz generation in L.A.  The state of the art here in downtown is just that, art, which is kind of ironic since swinging Kevin Kanner pretty much kickstarted the whole scene when he brought his weekly jam session east from the Mint. It grew and grew into something world class out here, that Blue Whale scene, daring and innovative and full of everything but the old school. Everything but the blues. What would Ray Brown say? Kanner asked once, and apparently Ray Brown would have said go to New York. Which he did. Other drummers, like Zach Harmon and Dan Schnelle and Tina Raymond, filled in nicely and were more attuned to the new vibe. They can be wild or textured or subtle or ethnic and in Harmon’s case especially, absolutely brilliant. They can switch time like you or I switch socks. Which wasn’t Kevin’s thing. Not at all.

I miss him out here, not just because he’s such a swell cat but because when he was behind the kit you’d have no worries at all that this shit was gonna lag, gonna stumble, gonna transform into crazy meters and advanced music theory. No, it’ll just be jazz. That’s all. Just jazz. That’s Kevin Kanner. Just jazz.

Rock’n’roll Ralphs

(I wrote this on Oscars night. I remember staying up late editing it. Then I decided it was a failure and didn’t post it. But here ’tis, failure or not.)

We go to the Rock’n’roll Ralphs for the thrill.

We have our own Ralphs here in Silver Lake, but it’s all normal now. Silver Lake is all normal now, Silver Lake used to be Silverlake and edgy and new and leathery gay but that’s long gone, gone with the punks and the freaks and the vatos. It’s all rich people and hipsters with kids and beautiful single women. Ours is a nice Ralphs. There’s a couple Ralphs across the river in Glendale…there’s an Armenian Ralphs and an upscale Ralphs and between them an eerie underground Ralphs that always make me think of Beneath then Planet of the Apes. You enter the parking lot above ground and way in the corner there’s a winding driveway that leads you into the Stygian darkness below. Inside, though, it’s just a regular Ralphs. Continue reading

Excerpt from still yet another party invitation, again, even, again, even, for crying out loud

Just a reminder that we’re throwing our usual tree trimming bash this Sat from 8 pm till the crows come home, or as the cow flies, or horseflies even. That is till very very late or very very early, depending on which day you think it is.

Ya know, I told myself I would keep this down to one taut instructive and fact packed sentence. I fucked up. I babbled. And there’s some dumb movie on with James Mason and Ava Gardner and when I saw her there on the beach I gasped and said Good Lord. My god she was gorgeous. Beyond gorgeous. Oops, someone just plunged a knife into James Mason’s back. I gotta go. See ya Saturday. If you need directions, let me know.

Brick

ps: James is alive again, and Ava’s back on the beach and I’m confused all to fuck. Who the hell wrote this? Oh well, I just wanted to add that if we don’t see ya have a terrific holiday.

A bullfight? What? But dig that toreador’s Nudie suit. He gazes at Ava….

Oh—ouch. The bull won that one.

Excerpt from yet another party invitation again, even

Just a warning these things have been getting kinda crowded and nuts these past several years, and while you can never tell, if you don’t like crowded noisy parties it might not be yer style….

Then again, it could be a dud. Ya never know. You might be the only one there. You, and all that food and beer and eggnog and hundreds of ornaments to hang on a lonely tree, the toy train going round and round and round, never getting anywhere. Ever. It could be the worse Christmas experience you ever had. Like a Charlie Brown Christmas, but Charlie gets run over by a zamboni on the way back home after all that humiliation and even his dog laughing at him. Like that.

Probably not, tho’.

Anyway, if ya wanna go lemme know and I’ll pass on the address, etc. Tho’ we’re listed as well, so you can just crash, driving up the street backwards like Nicole Richie high on weed and vicodin and life.

Excerpt from yet another party invitation

Well, any of the regulars to our decades of Xmas bashes know that there is only one certainty: Marc Mylar will be there. Marc has been at every single one as far back as we can remember….a good twenty of them in a row at least. He might be late and sweat soaked from playing sax somewhere, but he will be there. Well, this year Marc wasn’t there. We all noticed it, and several people were concerned. Something was amiss, no Marc Mylar! Then things began to go wrong. First: The seven foot dude someone brought was, um, bi-polar and drank too much and flipped out and creeped the hell out of everyone and had to be escorted out by those who brung him and put into permanent exile from our abode.  Continue reading

Selected Pieces

This blog is kind of a workshop for me, words scattered around like sawdust on the floor, pieces everywhere, some finished, some in progress, some going absolutely nowhere. A lot are ideas I might expand on later, or might trash. Who knows. Sorry about the mess.

What I’ve done, though, is take a lot of finished product, stuff I think is actually pretty good, polished ‘em up all shiny and proofed and put them together in the Selected Pieces category. If I were you that’s where I’d head and not bother with the rest. The stuff there should give you an idea of what I’m about. If not, there’s a bloated autobiography page.

However, if you’re looking for jazz stuff only–I was the jazz guy at the LA Weekly for years–try here. For music that ain’t jazz try here.  For vestiges of my ancient punk rock life try here.  There’s a collection of liner notes here. Confessions of a hipster’s life here. A non-hipster’s life here. Me trying to be funny here. And trying to seem serious here. There’s a few other categories in the drop down menu. Don Heckman has posted a bunch of my stuff on his International Review of Music here, including the fairly notorious diatribe Don dubbed “Keeping It Real”, parts 1 and 2  And a few others have popped up on the LA Beat site here, one piece of which I didn’t even know was public..  It wasn’t supposed to be..

You can follow my new postings on Twitter, Facebook, and Tumblr. Feel free to email me at brickjazz@yahoo.com.

Mitch Mitchell

(Found this posted on both Just Another Blog From L.A. and MetalJazz.com. Both are great blogs, btw. I assume it was originally an email. 2008)

RIP Mitch Mitchell. Jimi Hendrix’s drummer. The dude wailed like nobody. Tiny little English bastard doing his best Elvin Jones. Cool. And man could he get up a shambolic shuffle. Listen to “Hey Baby”…the one from “Rainbow Bridge”. Hip hippie jazzness at it’s best. Wasn’t another rock drummer that could play just like that. Dropping in Max Roach snare snaps and rim smacks and riffling popping toms, some heavy tom shit like Joe Morello in “Take Five” (remember that one? Mitchell apparently dug Morello’s thunder rolls) and all that Elvin that Jimi wanted–like when they come out at Monterey and light into “Killing Floor” and Mitch’s rolls are so all over and so in there (or close enough) and man, it’s frigging glorious. Crazy crazy rock’n'roll, man. Just like god intended it to be, if god smoked a lot of dope and didn’t worry much about meter….

Did he and Keith Moon ever play together? Can you imagine?

Nice guy, too. It was a dinner party somewhere in Silver Lake, eons ago. All these miserable guitar players wanted to play “Red House” with him, like he hadn’t been there and done that like sooooooooooooooo much better…. Incredibly, he smiled and put up with them all. They raise ‘em polite over there in England, apparently. When at last freed from his throne there was a dinner party inside. Someone put on Mingus. Two, three notes into it and Mitchell flipped. I love this!!! Who put this on!!!!!! Outside some guitar players were brutalizing Red House, and inside Mitch Mitchell is hovering over the phonograph, hearing nothing but Mingus. Yeah, alright. They can’t live forever.

Mitch Michell wailing on the snare.

Innocence

Just reading I piece I wrote about the day Elvis died and how all the ladies at work we’re crying their eyes out. Got me remembering those  ladies. Tough dames, all those girls, working class and divorced once or twice and life hadn’t always been easy and now they were doing the working wife thing, which was new in the 1970′s, very new. They were sweet, but get them all together and they were a pack, foul mouthed, chain smoking been around the track already broads and all totally horny. That I knew because they would talk about being horny. All the time. They had the itch. I got the itch, they’d say. I’m so horny I could fuck a telephone pole. I was a dumb kid then, not yet twenty years old, and would buy my burrito off the lunch truck and join them. At first they protected my innocence, but not long. Time to grow up boy, they’d say. Soon enough they’re banging their drunk boyfriends on a Saturday night or wondering if the old man could still get it up. They doubted it. Continue reading

Dead musicians

(email, 2009)

Of all the bands I was in, Renfield Brick was my favorite.  After that all the other bands seemed kinda safe.  Even the craziest most dangerous ones. I don’t know why, though, they weren’t lame at all. I loved them. But Renfield Brick was special….That’s such ancient history, completely gone. Chuck’s been dead years now, an OD. Ed is HIV positive. And I’m not even in rock’n'roll anymore. My second favorite band was my first, Keene White.  Chuck’s dead, and the singer died of Hep C he got from shooting up. Wasn’t even a junkie anymore…never had been really. Just chipping with the wrong needle. He died on the table..they were prepping him for a liver trasplant but the infection got him first. Close but no cigar. A few musicians from later bands and projects are dead…two from testicular cancers, a couple more ODs. There’s more, I’m sure, but I can’t recall the others right now, and I ain’t gonna try. Why? Just picking at those thick punk rock callouses, seeing if they bleed. They do, if ya don’t leave ‘em alone. You pick and pick and pick and then late at night the blood flows and I find myself sighing and saying aloud Chuck, you dumbfuck…..

Teddy Edwards

I heard on KKJZ this morning that LA’s homegrown tenor sax giant Teddy Edwards died yesterday, Easter Sunday, 2003.

I saw Teddy a couple times, but the last time me and perhaps 50 others saw him play at the Autry Museum was one of the most sublime musical events I have ever experienced.  It was downstairs in the atrium.  He mostly sat.  The rhythm section was impeccable.  And Teddy’s horn flowed like pure Prez and Dexter Gordon, but of a sound all his own.  Laying down beautiful, soulful passages that just graced that room, floating, down down down to almost inaudible low tones, brief flurries of notes, and bluesy chords that just yanked at your insides till people moaned, audibly.  Between songs he croaked out patter in that indecipherable LA bop drawl (like Dexter Gordon, but less vocal, if you can imagine that.) I left there with the feeling that sometimes music is the most important thing in the world, that there are moments in your life when certain notes blown certain ways just seem to elevate you beyond all the daily boredom of work or gossip. That perhaps in and around the workings of a melody are places of discovery that, for some reason I can’t divine, are just perfection.