New York Music Daily

No New Abnormal

Greg Lewis Brings His Harrowing, Haunting, Elegaic New Protest Jazz Suite to Bed-Stuy

Greg Lewis is one of the world’s great jazz organists, best known as a radical reinterpreter of Thelonious Monk. But Lewis hardly limits himself to reinventing the classics. His latest album The Breathe Suite – streaming at Spotify – is just as radical, and arguably the most relevant jazz album released in the past several months. Lewis dedicates five of its six relentlessly dark, troubled movements to black Americans murdered by police. There’s never been an organ jazz album like this before: like Monk, Lewis focuses on purposeful, catchy melodies, heavy with irony and often unvarnished horror. If this isn’t the best album of 2017 – which it might well be – it’s by far the darkest. Lewis and his Organ Monk trio are making a rare, intimate Bed-Stuy appearance on August 26 at 8:30 PM at Bar Lunatico.

A long, astringently atmospheric intro with acidic, sustained Marc Ribot guitar gives way to a stark fanfare, much like something out of the recent Amir ElSaffar catalog, as the suite’s epic, nineteen-minute first movement, Chronicles of Michael Brown, gets underway. Lewis’ ominous, sustained chromatics introduce a slinky, moody nocturne with a cinematic sweep on par with Quincy Jones’ mid-60s film music, Reggie Woods’ bright tenor sax and Riley Mullins’ trumpet contrasting with a haunting undercurrent that drummer Nasheet Waits eventually swings briskly.  From there Lewis and Ribot edge it into  simmering soul, then Waits leads the drive upward to a harrowing machete crescendo. Lewis’ solo as the simmer returns is part blues, part carnivalesque menace. When the fanfare returns, jaggedly desperate guitar and drums circle around, Lewis diabolically channeling Louis Vierne far more than Monk.

The second, enigmatically shuffling second movement memorializes Trayvon Martin, Lewis alternating between Pictures At an Exhibition menace and a chugging drive as guitarist Ron Jackson’s flitting solo dances in the shadows. The third, Aiyana Jones’ Song eulogizes the seven-year-old Detroit girl gunned down in a 2010 police raid. It’s here that the Monk influence really comes through, in the tersely stepping central theme and Lewis’ creepy, carnivalesque chords as the piece sways along. The altered martial beats of drummer Jeremy “Bean” Clemons’ solo lead the band upward; it ends suddenly, unresolved, just like the murder – two attempts to bring killer Joseph Weekley to justice ended in mistrials.

The murder of Eric Garner- throttled to death by policeman Daniel Pantaleo in front of the Staten Island luxury condo building where he’d been stationed to drive away black people – is commemorated in the fourth movement. Awash in portentous atmospherics, this macabre tone poem veers in and out of focus, the horns reprising the suite’s somber fanfare, Jackson’s guitar circling like a vulture overhead, then struggling and shrieking as the organ and drums finally rise.

The fifth movement, Osiris Ausar and the Race Soldiers opens with a conversation between pensive organ and spiraling drums, then the band hits a brisk shuffle groove, horns and guitar taking turns building bubbling contrast to Lewis’ angst-fueled chordlets underneath. The final movement revisits the Ferguson murder of Michael Brown with an endless series of frantically stairstepping riffs, Lewis finally taking a grimly allusive solo, balmy soul displaced by fear. Fans of good-time toe-tapping organ jazz are in for a surprise and a shock here; this album will also resonate with fans of politically fearless composers and songwriters like Shostakovich and Nina Simone.

Aashish Khan Plays a Transcendent Opening to This Year’s Drive East Festival of Indian Music

Anyone who doubts the curative power of Indian music obviously didn’t see sarod virtuoso Aashish Khan’s transcendent show at Dixon Place last night.

Chosen to open this year’s lavishly eclectic Drive East Festival of Indian music and culture, things didn’t look good for the son of the iconic Ali Akbar Khan, heir to a musical legacy that dates to the 1500s.. “I wanted to cancel, but my word is bond,” he shrugged.

And then struggled through a relatively brief ten minutes or so worth of a spacious, enigmatic evening raga where the main theme seemed to be “let’s not go there.” Time after time, Khan reached for flurrying intensity and then pulled back. It’s not like he was dealing with a life-threatening illness, but he was having a hard time finding his game – and apologized prosueful to the audience beforehand for being under the weather.

Then he and tabla player Nitin Mitta took a deep breath and launched into a stark, distantly anguished, ultimately indomitable performance of a brooding south Indian raga which had made its way into the northern repertoire, he said.

As it unwound, was Khan going to put the finishing touches on a triumphant, bitterly chromatic crescendo that seemed to say, “Take that!” to whatever had threatened to reduce him to an inhaler-dependent, shivering mass?

Not yet, no way. If there was any takeaway from this show – other than the harrowing, lingering, Middle Eastern-tinged phrases that Khan parsed early on – it was how much of a force of nature Mitta is. After Khan had found new life and sank his teeth (and fiery fingers) into it, hard, he handed the biggest crescendos to his tabla player. And did Mitta ever deliver. Devious, rat-a-tat twelve-on-four riffs, droll spirals from the depths to the flitting outer rims of the drums, and a jet-engine crescendo out of a plaintive Khan phrase brought the energy to redline.

The other message, if anybody hasn’t guessed by now, is that if this is Khan at halfspeed, imagine the guy at full steam. Which he and Mitta finally hit, after a long, sepulchrally modal, eerily contemplative stroll through the sarod’s upper-midrange, Khan picking his targets and then leveling a savagely precise chainsaw attack. The two then exchanged a sardonic series of congratulatory riffs – holy smokes, we actually pulled this thing off! – and wound up the set in a final careening volley of notes, heavy metal as it might have been played in Punjab in 1600 but with better instruments.

The Drive East Festival continues tonight, August 22 at 6 PM with a killer twinbill: Hindustani singer Indrani Khare (cover is $15) followed at 7:15 by by rising star sitar player Kinnar Seen ($20 cover). And the rest of the week’s lineup is pretty spectacular as well. Dixon Place is at 161A Chrystie St., just a block east and around the corner from Bowery Ballroom. The closest train is the J//M to Bowery, but it’s also an easy walk from the B/D at Grand St and the F at Second Avenue