New York Music Daily

No New Abnormal

Month: November, 2015

A Lyrical, Latin-Tinged New Quintet Album from Pianist Lou Rainone

Pianist Lou Rainone keeps a busy schedule in the New York scene, playing regularly with the master of polytonal sax, George Braith and also with intriguingly enigmatic chanteuse Dorian Devins, among others. As a composer, he likes latin rhythms and mines a melodic postbop style; in the same vein as Brad Mehldau, he hangs out mostly in the piano’s midrange. Rainone’s latest album, Sky Dance is just out, and not yet up at the usual places online yet, although the clips up at cdbaby offer a hint of the unselfconsciously glimmering melodicism and postbop chops that characterize his work. Most of the tracks feature a quintet with trombonist Larry Farrell, trumpeter Richie Vitale, bassist Tom Dicarlo and drummer Taro Okamoto. Rainone leads this ensemble on November 29 at 9 PM at the Fat Cat.

The title track, with its shuffling, latin-tinged groove opens the album on a catchy, vintage Frank Foster-ish note; Dicarlo bubbles and percolates and the rest of the band follows in turn, spaciously. Rainone anchoring it with an artful staccato that alludes to a bustling milieu more than it actually depicts one. Little Dipper the first of the jazz waltzes here, creates a similarly lingering, distantly wistful atmosphere, everyone choosing their spots. Sweet Tooth, a trio piece with the rhythm section, brings back the shuffling latin inflections and adds wry wit, Dicarlo echoing the composer’s sardonic, Monk-ish figures.

The clave rhythm moves closer to centerstage in Aqua, Rainone’s majestic, ringing chords leading up to a carbonated Vitale solo, Farrell adding splashes of cool. A Late Arrival works slow, woundedly muted terrain, with hints of Asian tonalities and a rainswept gleam that slowly brightens; Rainone and the horns take it out on a lustrous note.

Devins’ vividly wintry vocals are a quiet knockout in Shifting, another jazz waltz, Dicarlo’s darkly dancing solo at the center. Cross Current brings back the bustling energy that opens the album; with Farrell’s purposeful solo, it’s the most straight-up swing tune here. Fly Away, a trio piece and the last of the jazz waltzes, is Rainone’s most expansive number. Devins takes the bandstand again on Time Is a Friend, her subtle gallows humor set to an irrepressible clave beat over Rainone’s judicious chords and Farrell’s similarly considered lines. The album ends with Rsvp, a lively, solo-centric swing shuffle and a synthesis of pretty much everything on this album. Rainone is a guy who should be vastly better known as a bandleader and this album should go a long way toward further establishing that.

Raging Fyah Burn Down Babylon

One of Jamaican roots reggae band Raging Fyah‘s distinguishing characteristics is that they’re a lot more musically interesting than their brethren in two-chord vamps. Listening to the group’s latest tracks from Judgement Day & Destiny – streaming at Spotify – immediately brings to mind longtime Jamdown roots vets Israel Vibration. Raging Fyah don’t have that group’s eendearingly wobbly vocal harmonies, but they’ve got the tunes and the musicianship. And they also have good lyrics: some of the songs here are your typical good-vibes anthems, but true to their name, there’s some political fire as well. In an era where the claim of staying true to the spirit of classic roots reggae almost always turns out to be an empty cliche, these guys deliver. They’re playing on November 24 at around 10 at Milk River, 960 Atlantic Ave (Grand/Willoughby) in Ft. Greene; take the C to Clinton-Washington. Cover is $20.

Irie Vibe, the sunny first cut, kicks off with keyboardist Demar Gayle’s wavery portanento string synth over guitarist Courtland White’s wry, lowdown wah-wah guitar and rises from there. Later on, Gayle has fun with classical riffage and then impersonating a vibraphone. The title track is sort of a mashup of early Third World and Kaya-era Marley: White goes for biting, sustained phrases over Gayle’s icy Wya Lindo-style organ. Likewise, First Love goes back for a deep hit of sophisticated, soul-jazz flavored roofs smoke. And Behold really gets the band firing on all cylinders right out of the chute, drummer Anthony Watson spinning and spiraling over White’s Memphis-tinged, Chinna Smith-style lines, frontman Kumar Bent’s low-key delivery matching the spiritually-inspired lyrics.

I and I breaks out of the mold of doctrinaire Africanist speechifying with some trippy dub touches and what sounds like an electrified toy piano. Music Isn’t Biased cynically revisits a handful of Babylon system nursery rhymes; it’s got an aphoristic edge that looks back to Bob Marley without ripping him off. One of the catchiest and most anthemic numbers here is Fight: “Don’t you be a fish to the fisherman,” Bent warns.over a watery, very 80s roots backdrop.

Nah Look Back further bolsters the argument that White might be the best reggae guitarist working right now: lots of taste and texture in this guy’s spare, lingering riffs. “Mankind don’t know the power they have,” Bent laments on the wickedly catchy track after that, Gayle orchestrating it with pulsing synth brass and rippling gospel organ. The final cut here is the piano-driven, aptly triumphant Jah Glory. In an era when most Jamaican reggae has been digitized to death, this band is a breath of fresh air straight off Montego Bay.

Powerpop and Janglerock Cult Heroes the Flamin’ Groovies Make Their Williamsburg Debut Sunday Night

How many bands from the sixties are still left, let alone worth seeing? The Stones may be a pale shadow of their former glory, but the Flamin’ Groovies are still out there and still reputedly ripping it up. As far as legendary twinbills are concerned, it’s hard to imagine anything much more adrenalizing than when they teamed up with the original version of Aussie garage-psych legends Radio Birdman for that band’s one and only European tour in 1979. Hundreds, maybe thousands of shows later, the Flamin’ Groovies are making their Williamsburg debut this Sunday, November 22 at 10 PM at Baby’s All Right. Cover is $20, and you might want to show up early just to make sure you get in since this is a small place, maybe the smallest venue the band has played in decades. You can expect to see Cyril Jordan, Chris Wilson and George Alexander from the classic 1971-80 lineup, bolstered by Victor Penalosa on drums,

Their latest release is Groovies’ Greatest Grooves, streaming at Spotify, a delicious and definitive 24-song playlist that would get a smile out of the most curmudgeonly, critical pop purist. There’s Shake Some Action, the iconic powerpop tune with the hook that every guitarist worth his or her salt has messed around with (and possibly stolen); the new single End of the World, echoing Blue Oyster Cult or possibly the Frank Flight Band; Teenage Head, the snotty, ghoulishly galloping number that at least one band named themselves after; the trippy, woundedly gorgeous twelve-string chamber pop classic I Saw Her; Slow Death; which prefigures both the Move and Big Star; the wickedly catchy yet counterintuitive Jumpin’ in the Night; and the proto-glam Tallahassee Lassie.

These guys were so far ahead of their time it’s not funny. The list of bands they’ve influenced, in punk, powerpop and garage rock, goes on for miles. You can hear electric T-Rex in Yeah My Baby (meanwhile, the Groovies are mashing up the Velvets with the Beatles). Their stripped-down cover of Don’t Lie to Me has been a prototype for bar bands covering Chuck Berry for decades. There’s First Plane Home, awash in glistening Rickenbacker chime and clang. Uneasy major-to-minor-and-back changes permeate the briskly pulsing shuffle Please Please Girl, while it’s the dancing, minimalist lead guitar lines that make I Can’t Hide so cool. There are also deeper tracks here like Yes It’s True and You Tore Me Down, with their heartbreakingly jangly, watery mashup of Byrds folk-rock and early Beatles pop; Between the Lines, which could be a proto-Cheap Trick covering Dylan: and Don’t Put Me On, a defiant stoner look forward to new wave.

There’s also Teenage Confidential, which sounds like the early Who taking a stab at Phil Spector; amped up early Pretty Things-style R&B like Down Down Down; I’ll Cry Alone, beefed-up acoustic-electric Fab Four; the fuzztone-tinged Byrds of Yes I Am; and the bizarre bluegrass-Beatles hybrid All I Wanted. There’s going to be a clinic in sharp, catchy tunesmithing Sunday night a few blocks from the Marcy Avenue stop on the J and M train and you can be there to witness it.

Psycho Mambos with Gato Loco Saturday Night at BAM Cafe

Gato Loco got their start putting a punk-jazz spin on classic old Cuban son and mambo styles, with low-register instruments: baritone and bass sax, tuba, bass and baritone guitar, among others. Snice then, they’ve expanded their sound with a rotating cast of characters: it wasn’t long before they’d added originals to their set. They had long-running residencies at the old Bowery Poetry Club and the late, lamented Zirzamin. Since then, gigs have been somewhat fewer and further between, especially since frontman/multi-saxophonist Stefan Zeniuk is so highly sought after as a sideman. It’s never exactly certain just what Gato Loco lineup is going to show up, but it’s a safe bet that their gig this Saturday night, November 21 at 10 PM at BAM Cafe will be a party.

Their most recent show at another frequent haunt, Barbes, was this past June, where they were joined by a hotshot Strat player along with Tim Vaugn on trombone, Tuba Joe, Ari F-C on bass and the brilliant Kevin Garcia (also of another similarly estimable noir band, Karla Rose & the Thorns) on drums. They opened with an agitatedly pulsing chase scene of sorts that rose to a wailing, enveloping forestorm as the rhythm went completely haywire along with the rest of the band, faded down into cinders and then sprang up again in a split second. Zeniuk’s ghostly bass sax mingled with lingering, reverbtoned Lynchian licks from the guitar as the slow, slinky second number got underway, then shifted shape into a warmly moonlit tableau before rising toward macabre Big Lazy territory. From there they segued into a dark clave groove, Vaugn punching holes in the sky, Garcia tumbling elegantly in the background as the horns joined forces, terse and somewhat grim as they went way down low. The careening, axe-murderer sprint to the finish line was one of the most exhilarating moments of any show anywhere this year – and probably one of the loudest ever at little Barbes.

From there the band went epic, making a slow, big-sky highway theme out of a wistful Gulf Coast folk-inspired tune, slowly elevating to a lively, scampering fanfare, then down again, Vaugn pulling the rest of the group along with a long, tightly unwinding staccato solo. The low instruments’ murky noir sonics contrasted with the guitarist’s spare, sunbaked blues  and Memphis soul lines as the next number got underway, Zeniuk finally signaling with a snort that it was time to build another funeral pyre on top of the serpentine groove. The best song of the night was a gloomy bolero, played in a dynamically shifting vein as Sergio Mendoza might have done it, featuring a muted trumpet solo, another pyrotechnically noisy interlude and an unexpected, clickety-clack dixieland outro. Name another band with as many flavors as these crazy cats.

Darcy James Argue’s Secret Society Bring Their Intense, Politically Relevant, Cutting-Edge Big Band Jazz to BAM This Week

Starting tonight, November 18 and continuing through November 22 at 7:30 PM, New York’s arguably most intense, poliitically relevant, cutting-edge large jazz ensemble, Darcy James Argue’s Secret Society plays a stand they’ve earned many times over, at BAM’s Harvey Theatre. $25 seats are still available as of today. To credit composer/conductor Argue’s long-running vehicle – who made their debut in the basement of CB’s Gallery just over ten years ago – for maintaining an unflinching, uncompromisingly populist worldview is in no way intended as a dis to another mighty big band, Arturo O’Farrill’s Afro-Latin Jazz Orchestra, whose latest album The Offense of the Drum confronts some of the most troubling issues facing urban areas, and this city in particular. But where O’Farrill’s music finds guarded optimism in a celebration of indomitable creativity among even the most impoverished, Argue’s Secret Society’s most recent album, Brooklyn Babylon, reaches much darker conclusions. At the band’s most recent New York concert, a ten-year anniversary bash at the Bell House, Argue spoke derisively of “the destruction of Brooklyn” when introducing songs from that wildly ambitious, tightly wound and often utterly chilling suite, a coldly sober narrative of gentrification and its discontents, seen through the eyes of a construction worker who ends up watching in horror as one grandiose project after another takes its grim toll.

Argue’s latest suite, Real Enemies – which the band is going to air out at BAM – is even more ambitious. Its central theme is conspiracy theories. At the Bell House, Argue explained with just the hint of a grin that “You have to choose which ones to believe.” And then offered a tantalizing preview with two new pieces, both with an epic, cinematically noir sweep, the first evocative of early 70s Morricone scores, with a relentless, driving clave rhythm and wide-eyed, terrorized brass crescendos, The second was more muted and brooding but also featuring a lot of moody latin riffage from drummer Jon Wikan.

A triptych of songs – and these pieces are songs in the most genuine sense of the word – from Brooklyn Babylon were just as gripping. The insistent, increasingly agitated staccato and tricky syncopation of Construction-Destruction and eventually the morose, defeated seaside tableau Coney Island were the centerpieces of the show, amidst some older material which, if probably inadvertently, made for a good career retrospective. Lower-register instruments, especially, were given prominent features in the hands of baritone saxophonist Carl Maraghi, trombonists Mike Fahie and Ryan Keberle, everyone in the 24-piece ensemble firing on an extra cylinder, it seemed, through the epic outer-space flight of Moon of Mars, the stormy wave motion of a portrait of an island off the Canadian coast – a ruggedly crescendoing number that’s sort of Argue’s Hebrides Overture – as well as some unexpectedly straight-up oldschool swing.

Trumpeter Nadje Noordhuis did double duty, adding her concisely soaring sonics to this group as well as opening the show with her innovative and richly melodic quintet featuring Sara Caswell on violin, Vitor Goncalves on piano and accordion, Matt Clohesy on bass and Jared Schonig on drums. It’s easy to see how Argue and Noordhuis would be drawn to each others’ music: both favor long upward trajectories, proportions that edge toward the titanic and intricate permutations on simple, repeating themes. Her group opened with a slowly crescendoing, rather epic trans-oceanic Australia-to-New York travelogue, then brought things down with a plaintive trio eletgy dedicated to the late trumpeter Laurie Frink, moving through enigmatic nuevo tango and back up again into blazingly triumphant, anthemic territory.

The Amphibious Man Bring Their Creepy, Cinematic New England Noir to the South Slope

Hartford, Connecticut six-piece The Amphibious Man call their music “road slaw.” It’s dark and haphazard, yet purposeful and tuneful, with enough of an over-the-guardrail vibe to make it genuinely menacing. Reverbtoned surf lines sit side by side with blasts of pure punk rock, cheap 60s b-movie mystery soundtrack sonics, coyly creepy spacerock organ, plus grey-noise synth and guitar effects that look back to the earliest days of psychedelia but also instantly identify the band’s sound as being from right now. Their latest album Witch Hips is streaming at Bandcamp; they’re playing Fifth Estate Bar, 506 5th Ave (12th & 13th Sts), in that nebulous neighborhood between Park Slope and Sunset Park on November 20 at 10 PM. Ghoulpunks Danse De Sade play afterward at around 11, cover is TBA. You can take the F to 7th Ave. and walk downhill, or the R to 9th St, which is closer, and go up.

The album’s opening track, Fischer Cat veers back and forth between swaying, reverbtoned Ventures clang and roaring gutter rock; the band layers squirrelly Mystery Science Theatre sonics under the guitars as it winds out. Jimmy – as in the leering mantra “Jimmy doesn’t like this” – would be straight-up 70s proto-metal all the way through if not for the blippy, minimalist fuzz-synth verse. South Whitney Pizza, which may or may not be about or inspired by a hometown pie-and-slice joint, has a murky 80s lo-fi new wave garage feel with its oily mudpuddle bass riffs over a steady, watery guitar tune.

The album’s best track, Halloweed, brings to mind what Big Lazy might have sounded like in their earliest days exploring lo-fi noir cinematics before they started playing out. A slow, lingering, distantly bolero-tinged noir guitar intro fuels the song’s rise toward fullscale Lynchian horror, then goes in a colder but equally macabre direction. Hartman Park artfully and enigmatically comes together out of more of that syncopated quasi-surf. The swaying, sarcastic, almost lullabyish The Devil’s Hopyard follows a similar tangent toward a hypnotically dancing back-and-forth swing. The album’s final track is the blasting Tombstone Luvin, which blends an eerily anthemic lo-fi post-new wave ambience with gritty, punk-inspired proto-metal. Guitarists Jason Principi and Mike Myrbeck, bassists Jake Downey and Jackie Hopkins and keyboardist/drummers Adam Heege and Shaun Burns get extra props for originality and ominous outside-the-box ideas. You might not think that an album that sounds like this might be one of the best to come over the transom here this year, but it is.

Enigmatic Songwriter and Magical Singer Elisa Flynn Puts Out a Richly Nuanced, Eclectic Solo Album

Elisa Flynn‘s new album My Henry Lee – streaming at Bandcamp – picks up where she left off with her unselfconsciously haunting, historically-infused 19th Century Songs in 2011. Flynn has been one of New York’s most distinctive, poignantly powerful singers since the zeros, back when the founding member of Bunny Brains decided to study vocals with Shara Worden. If anything, this is Flynn’s most nuanced and dynamic album yet, maybe because it’s mainly just solo electric guitar and voice with the occasional echoey electric piano or guitar overdub. The music is both elegant and scruffy, and very catchy: Flynn likes to juxtapose enigmatic, simple variations on a spare guitar riff with more anthemic, sometimes majestic choruses. Flynn is also an irrepressible impresario: she’s playing one of her usual haunts, the Way Station tomorrow night, November 17 at 8 PM, leading “ an evening of songs of antagonism and rivalry” with Lys Guillorn, Maharajah Sweets, Dan Cullinan, Wifey, Sarah Bisman, Thee Shambels’ Neville Elder, John LaPolla, plus a reading by Kevin Kinsella (ex- John Brown’s Body).

The title track of Flynn’s new album sets the tone, a brooding, resonantly fingerpicked, carefully considered but also pretty radically reworked take of the classic murder ballad popularized by Nick Cave and PJ Harvey. Flynn follows that with the ominously picturesque My Blood, set to a hypnotically ringing, loopy guitar backdrop. Cheetah, the first of a couple of numbers celebrating animalian fearlessness, rises from a briskly strummy, fast 6/8 groove spiced with surrealistically echoey early 80s electric piano: it could be a demo from the Church circa 1983.

Likewise, Horse Race, with its weirdly echoey, lo-fi, bell-like guitar, except that this is Flynn at her sardonic, darkly amusing best: “There’s nothing rough about you, I’d just like to put that on you, I want you to be more like me…tell me what drugs you’re on,’ she poses to a complicated person who’s clearly vexing her. Keeper of Secrets is another number pairing unresolved minimalism against another wickedly catchy chorus, a possible elegy with hints of late Beatles as the music subtly builds from skeletal to lush. The final cut is a banjo tune that’s simultaneously stark and rustic and yet completely in the here and now: as ancient as this song sounds, it’s impossible to imagine it being recorded in, say, 1988. It’s an uneasy escape anthem that harks back to the Reconstruction-era milieu of much of Flynn’s previous album. There’s a lot going on here, lyrically especially – these songs grow on you. Watch this space for more full-length solo shows by Flynn, who’s just as funny a stage presence as she is an individualistic guitarist and rivetingly good singer.

On Est Parisien Ce Soir

If we turn our society into a police state, with metal detectors at every door, body searches in every public place and the elimination of civil liberties, we fulfill the terrorists’ dream. In so doing, we complete the repulsive cycle of evil that began with CIA-funded, anti-Soviet Islamofascists in their mountain hideaways in Afghanistan in the 70s and came to a head last night with the attacks on the citizens of Paris. This may be a New York music blog, and blogs don’t have souls, but if this blog had a soul, it would reside in Paris and not here. As New Yorkers and citizens of the world, our hearts belong with the people of Paris right now.

This time the terrorists hit us where it hurt the most. We’ll never know for sure, but all indications are that they deliberately targeted the fans of an American rock band, an excellent one at that, who managed to sell out a majestic old 1500-capacity theatre, no small achievement for a foreign group in a European city that was already reeling from the effects of the ongoing global economic depression before the gunmen hit. It is troubling to the extreme that murderous religious zealots would single out the Eagles of Death Metal and their bon vivant fan base to be slaughtered indiscriminately.

As unfortunate as this is to say, the Paris attacks shouldn’t have come as any surprise. A society that demonizes another, attacks and kills their members endlessly, taunts them and treats them as subhuman, cannot expect their victims or those victims’ survivors not to retaliate. The way to stop terrorism is to eliminate the desperate cycle of exile and destitution that creates it. If people are invested in their society, if they have hope for building a life, raising a family and pursuing their dreams, they will work toward those goals. In the absence of hope for the future, despair and then desperation sets in. Around the world, impoverishment and crime go hand in hand: if you have nothing to lose, consequences become irrelevant. You’d die regardless: why not take some of the people you perceive as the enemy on your way out?

Extreme Islamofascism plays the exact same role in the Middle East and in the Arabic-speaking diaspora as Donald Trump plays here. Displaced, disheartened Muslims fall for ISIS’ anti-western rhetoric just as some of the most impoverished and educationally deprived Americans fall for Trump’s call to exile Mexicans. There are lots of stupid, ignorant, frustrated people who would welcome the chance to take out their anger on any enemy, real or imagined. The psychology of how Americans become cannon fodder is identical to how disenfranchised kids of Middle Eastern and North African descent become ISIS suicide bombers.

Ultimately, what do extremists on both the Christian or Islamic side want? They want an imaginary world where everything is black and white, where everyone who doesn’t share their worldview is the Other and therefore a target to be destroyed. We Americans stand for freedom – theoretically at least. If we sacrifice our freedom for all citizens on the altar of revenge against enemies, be they real, perceived or simply invented by the corporate elite as a way to drum up tax dollars for weapons corporations, we create a world where terror flourishes.

In destroying freedom, we create precisely what the terrorists want. We cede them the high ground on all fronts. Their terror fixates us and paralyzes us to the point where, paradoxically, we actually embrace their vision of a society based on barbarity and intolerance. François Hollande’s embrace of the suggestion to suspend civil liberties indefinitely – his words – destroys the very attributes that have made France such a magnet for humankind’s greatest passions and ambitions throughout the past thousand years. If we allow the warmongers and fearmongers among us to scare us, whether in France, the US or elsewhere in the west, to the point where we abandon the ideals that have made our societies a model for others around the world (imperfect as these models obviously are), we no longer deserve those ideals or the freedoms they engender. At that point, we should all just give up and move to North Korea. It’s a lot cheaper there.

At this particular moment in New York history, this is as good a time to stay close to the ground as any. If only for the sake of convenience, if you’re going out to see live music, it might make a lot more sense to stick to smaller venues for the next couple of weeks. That’s not to imply that you’d be limiting your chances of falling victim to terrorist violence at a concert. Virtually all of the well-publicized arrests of terrorist plotters in the United States since 9/11 came as a result of undercover agents seeking out the dumbest people at the mosque, then offering them absurdly large amounts of money – taxpayer money, in case anyone’s wondering where that comes from – to do evil things. Staying small-scale just means you’re less likely to have to deal with draconian, airport-style security at the door…or being denied admission because, say, you brought your laptop with you instead of leaving it at the office. Draconian measures, after all, bring out the little Hitler in a lot of people. And all the most interesting stuff is happening in the small clubs anyway.

The same is true in all major cities, Paris included. Let’s hope the injured all make a full recovery, as pain-free as possible, from their physical and emotional wounds. Let’s reach out to our friends in France and the French community around the world: they need us more than they ever have. Let’s take the bull by the horns and demand a global response to the endless civil war, in Syria and elsewhere, where terrorists and Islamofascists breed like mosquitoes in the fetid backyard of a foreclosed property. Let’s hope for the Eagles of Death Metal, and the rest of the witnesses to Friday’s carnage, to find the strength to overcome the horror they just witnessed. And for the record, obviously, yes, let’s get any of the bastards responsible for these murders who might still be alive and lock them up forever. Let’s just not lock ourselves up in the process. We didn’t kill anybody.

Faith Put Their Individualistic Downtown NYC Spin on Classic Roots Reggae

For the better part of two decades, reggae-rockers Faith have been one of New York’s most distinctive, intoxicatingly groove-driven bands. Frontwoman Felice Rosser’s deep, purposefully exploratory basslines established her long ago as one of the most consistently interesting and original four-string players in town. She sings in an earthy, unselfconsciously soulful contralto that brings to mind Nina Simone, but with more range and a breathier, more balmy upper register. The band has a brand-new ep, Soul Secrets – streaming at Soundcloud – and a show tonight, November 14 at 8 PM at Matchless in Williamsburg where they’re followed by metalish cinema rock band Western Estates and then postrock pioneer Wharton Tiers – who recorded this album – and his band. Cover is $8.

The album’s title track has a driving vintage 70s roots reggae feel – think Aswad, Steel Pulse, Jacob Miller, i.e. the more guitar-fueled acts from reggae’s golden age. “Sometimes we are two cultured pearls inside a crusty shell,” Rosser muses in Lovers, which-builds from a slinky guitar-and-organ roots groove to a harder-edged, guitar-fueled chorus, Rosser shifting seamlessly from her powerful low range to an arguably even more powerful falsetto. Her rising bass matches Nao Hakamada’s slowly crescendoing, smoldering guitar solo.

The third track, Love of a Lifetime falls midway between those two styles, Hakamada pulling the band out of a dizzying dub interlude with some neat backward-masked riffage before he takes the energy further toward redline. The slow/midtempo, early 70s style soul-jazz infused Carried Away brings to mind classic-period Third World. There’s also a dub version of that track that gives the whole band, especially drummer Paddy Boom more headroom for his psychedelic textures. Much as there’s plenty of studio sorcery going on here, especially in the deepest of the dub moments, the album is a good approximation of Faith’s hypnotic live show. They’re a New York institution: there aren’t many people left from the Lower East Side when it was a hotbed of creativity, 10 or 20 years ago, who haven’t seen them. Now it’s your turn.

A Rare, Explosively Dynamic, Cutting-Edge New York Show by Hungary’s Modern Art Orchestra

One of the most exhilarating and cutting-edge jazz shows of the year happened Wednesday night at Symphony Space, where the Modern Art Orchestra became the latest group passing through town to pay homage to Bela Bartok in the 70th anniversary year of the composer’s death. But that was just the tip of the iceberg. In roughly an hour onstage, the Hungarian large ensemble swung and slunk their way through bristling tonalities, goosebump-inducing crime jazz cadenzas and a mighty orchestral grandeur that was as richly tuneful as it was forward-looking.

Led by conductor/trumpeter Kornel Fekete-Kovacs, the group opened with a lickety-split, firestorming Gabor Subic arrangement of one of Bartok’s best-loved neoromantic early works, the Allegro Barbaro. The original version, for piano, looks back to Liszt; this version drew more heavily on the acidic close harmony that would come to define Bartok’s iconic, mature oeuvre.

Kristóf Bacsó’s strutting, irony-rich march The Visitor radiated suspiciously dramatic, staccato accents and eerily airy harmonies lingering overhead, like smoke from a battle that nobody wanted to admit ever happened. László Melis’ Tales of Uncle Pepin From the Great Patriotic War began with an enigmatically dancing solo bass intro and rose to lush Gil Evans-like lustre. Likewise, trumpeter Gábor Cseke’s On My Own swung with a brooding, instrospective intensity, with a woundedly expressive Fekete-Kovacs flugelhorn solo echoed by the composer’s own lingering, slowly crescendoing piano solo that drew the song upward toward anguishd tango territory. Playing a custom-made dual trombone through a thicket of otherworldly electronic effects, László Gõz opened Pèter Eötvös’ Paris-Dakar on a surreal, deep-space note before the brass lept in with a joyous pulse that eventually took over the entire sonic spectrum, from top to bottom, as the piece careened down the rails, taking a moody detour toward free jazz territory with some sinister cascades from the trombones..

Guest Dave Liebman first contributed pensive kaval to Kristóf Bacsó’s Variations on a Folksong and then switched to soprano sax as the group’s rustic, ambered ambience rose behind him in an elegaic tone poem of sorts that built to a fullscale, clave-driven blaze. The final three works on the bill drew from the Fekete-Kovacs catalog. The first, Full Moon, turned out to be an uneasily bustling, intricately voiced, noir-spiced vehicle for Liebman’s rapidfire hardbop flight. He fueled another long crescendo in the trickily syncopated Mr Hyde and again took centerstage on the frantically shuffling Traffic Choral. The group swung their way out on the most trad number of the night, which perhaps ironically was more or less a fullscale improvisation, the orchestra creating a 40s bop dance party out of thin air. It was as challenging and downright fun as anything Darcy James Argue’s Secret Society or the Maria Schneider Orchestra have done lately – big band jazz doesn’t get any more acerbic or interesting than this.