This is one of my favorite cuts of music of all time. It’s another example of how the title really speaks to what’s happening in the music. This references Marcus Garvey, the great Pan-Africanist in the States during the late ’10s and 20s, who died in England in 1940, mistreated, and his organization decentralized by the same tactics used against the Black Panthers some years later. The piece references that history, talking about self-determination, but then it also has a haunting, ghostly quality; the melody is so powerful, as is the fact that Abbey doesn’t sing any words.

…He always plays something and then leaves some space, and then plays something else and leaves some space. He calls, he answers, he answers, and then he leaves some space. He always used to say that there’s always room. Get to your shit quick, make a statement, and in making that statement, the things that you don’t play are just as important as the things you do. That always seemed to be a theme for him, and he utilized it in every component of his career. Always some space for others.

Ed Banger Records is happy to announce the release of BREAKBOT feat Irfane “Baby I’m Yours” video!
It was (directed) handmade by IRINA DAKEVA @ WIZZ. It is composed of approx 2000 images watercolor painted one after another (we say Aquarelle in french, way more sexy).

Et qu’est-ce une bonne chanson:

Breakbot – Baby I’m Yours (feat. Irfane) – HD from Ed Banger Records on Vimeo.

via Andrew Sullivan

Jim Macnie from the Voice:

It’s best not to starve yourself before a rich repast—nibbling a bit helps the body gear up for the onslaught. With the Vision Fest and Carefusion bashes on the jazz horizon, the Undead Festival is the wise way to prime your palette. It’s basically a twin of the celebrated Winter Jazzfest: three Village venues become a carousel of action, delivering 35-plus bands to Bleeckerville while engendering a trillion Tweets from hopped-up j’heads thriving on such overstimulation. It’s also a nexus of now-prov leaders that arrives with a sub-agenda of youth, stretching from cornetist Taylor Ho Bynum to guitarist Mary Halvorson to saxophonist Ben Wendel. It’s not about killing your idols, though. Roswell Rudd’s elastic trombone, Steve Coleman’s itchy alto, and Tim Berne’s restless mind all bring crucial career lessons to the party.

Come on down, jammies allowed.

via Washington Musica Viva

Manny Ramirez Photo by Corey Kilgannon

Corey Kilgannon and Andy Newman’s piece:

Hank Jones, the legendary jazz pianist, led an oddly bifurcated existence toward the end of his 91 years on earth.

He stayed active till the very end, collecting a Grammy last year and touring the world. But when he wasn’t on the road, he lived in near isolation in a 12-by-12-foot room at 108th Street and Broadway, ordering in three meals a day from the diner downstairs and practicing incessantly on an electric keyboard plugged into headphones.

“He was worried he would bother the neighbors,” said Mr. Jones’s roommate and landlord, Manny Ramirez. “The neighbors would ask, ‘Why don’t we hear Hank anymore?’ I said, ‘He locks himself in his room all the time.’”

On Sunday, Mr. Jones died at a hospice in the Bronx, only a few weeks after returning from Japan.

On Monday night, Mr. Ramirez entered Mr. Jones’s room to begin cleaning it out.

Mr. Jones had left it locked and deadbolted. Mr. Ramirez, 66, took a hammer and large chisel, bashed a hole in the door, stuck his hand through and opened it.

He switched on the light and there was the room: suitcases, sheet music and jazz awards cluttered around an unmade bed. On the cluttered night-table was a book of Sherlock Holmes stories.
Hank JonesJack Vartoogian Mr. Jones in 1995.

Scattered about were CDs of Debussy, Ravel and Chopin. In the clothes closets were designer neckties and sharp-looking suits. On one shelf was a supply of light bulbs. On another were a coffee maker and an unopened bottle of fine Champagne. Nearby were three large leather music folders: for piano, bass and drums.

The Yamaha electric piano had a pair of headphones lying on the keyboard and a music exercise book still on the music stand, along with one of Mr. Jones’s compositions.

“He would practice while listening to classical music – classical was his favorite music,” Mr. Ramirez said.

Mr. Ramirez, who would occasionally take Mr. Jones to visit his wife in an assisted-care facility upstate, said that in general, he was unable to pull Mr. Jones out of his reclusion.

“I’d say, ‘Come on, Hank, watch some sports with me,’” he recalled. “But he’d say, ‘Nope, got to practice.’ He was still a perfectionist at age 91 — 2 or 3 in the morning, it didn’t matter. I wondered, ‘When does he sleep?’”

Lisa Gersten, who lives in the next apartment, walked in. She too knew Mr. Jones. Her three daughters would listen to him play from outside the room. She went and got a photograph of two of her daughters and Mr. Jones posing with his Grammy award.

“He kept it in a box like a pair of shoes,” said Ms. Gersten.

“It’s been a real New York experience, living next to him,” she added. “You never know who your neighbors are in this city.” After Mr. Jones agreed to jam with one of her musician friends, she wrote a note to him and taped it to his door.

On Monday night the note remained there. It read simply: “Thank You, Thank You, Thank You.”

Josh Jackson:

Letting reporters into Mr. Jones’ apartment shows a certain lack of decorum. Even if Hank Jones’ estate allowed this, I believe certain things about a a great artist like Mr. Jones deserve some privacy.

I’m disappointed that the New York Times would publish this, regardless of intent.

Ethan Iverson:

How long did Hank Jones live in this 12 x 12 room? The article doesn’t say, but it can’t have been for very long.

Hank Jones fought his whole life for his instrument, his genre, and his race. He was loved and feared by almost any competent jazz musician regardless of style. Whatever the circumstances of his final days, Hank Jones needs to be remembered for his vitality, not for some tabloid-esque coda. This article reads more like a police report than as a respectful tribute, an attitude I find incomprehensible.

Loren Schoenberg:

To set the story and my comments in context: I met Hank in the early 1970’s and he befriended me and my folks. After he and his wife moved from Northern New Jersey thirty or so years ago, they lived in a beautiful rural, small farm in upstate New York. They chose a reclusive environment. My folks visited them there, and said that all Hank really wanted was a place to practice undisturbed. After his wife became ill, he eventually wound up in this small place in Manhattan.

While it is sad to think of Hank in that small setting, it seems as though he was surrounded by human beings who appreciated him for who he was, not for his professional credentials. This raises larger issues about how we treat elders and how artists are largely marginalized. But I for one found nothing objectionable about the piece, and it makes Hank’s story more amazing.

In the end it’s his music that will linger as long as there are people with ears and a sensitivity for elegance.

BW:

Piece could have been clearer. It almost gives the impression that this is an SRO hotel and that he was destitute, rather than a relatively well-off, world famous jazz giant, who just needed very little. There’s a journalistic archetype about isolated elderly jazz musicians under whose gravitational sway this piece a little too closely falls. Would have taken a sentence or two to change that.

But beyond that, I agree with Loren. What a detail-ridden snapshot. Sherlock Holmes!! That was the micro-truth of how he lived for the past couple of years. Interesting and worth knowing.

Charlie Haden and Ruth Cameron:

Hank Jones was great human being, a musical genius, a jazz legend , a jazz master and national treasure
who contributed enormously to the genre of jazz. I just recorded with him in February and, as always, he was dignified on all occasions, always kind and gracious, never losing his sense of humor. It’s therefore a travesty that the writers of this article who obviously didn’t know him portray the man with such a lack of reverence.
Mr Miles Morino said it perfectly and has explained Hank’s true circumstances but there are now serious questions:

1) Under what legal right could the landlord break into a tenant’s room a few hours after that person died and
“clear out” his things without permission from Hank’s heirs or lawyer or manager? Presumably
there was no request from the police or any lawyer to get in the room so why enter until the family gets there?
The rent was most certainly paid til the end of the month?

2) How did Fernandez dispose of Hank’s things? Did he keep things for himself? For that matter, did the reporters unlawfully take any property belonging to Hank?
- i.e. there was money and original music in that room – where did it go? Were things sold? Were they thrown in the garbage?

3) And just as importantly, how did two NY Times reporters – with cameras no less – just happen to be at the apartment when Fernandez decided to “clear out” Hanks things?
Taking photos less than 24 hours after Hank died. That is just as outrageous and seems opportunistic and exploitive
at best.

4) Was Fernandez paid for this article? Well, he got his photo in the paper!
Charlie Haden, musician
Ruth Cameron, producer

Jeanne-Pierre Leduc:

As Hank’s manager, producer and friend these past years, I too wish to add my voice here. The article is clearly an invasion of privacy and was ill-advised. I am too grief-stricken and exhausted at the moment to say much more, but here are a few things to ponder:

I would have thought Peter Keepnews’ excellent obituary would have been enough, but perhaps it’s in keeping with our times to now have a TMZ or National Enquirer angle, and to not leave well enough alone. I know and respect Mr. Ramirez, and he was very good to Hank. I just don’t understand why the article was written and what is gained from its publication.

The reality – again, no one’s business but Hank’s, but I feel compelled to set the record straight – was that yes, Hank pined for his beloved home upstate, but he also enjoyed the proximity to all that NYC had to offer, including his dear friends, like Frank Wess and Bob Cranshaw. He was basically content, and there was no tragedy related to his living condition. On the road, he traveled first class, enjoyed the finest suites in the world’s finest hotels, and he ate well. In our travels, Hank was nourished in no small part by the incredible energy of his legions of fans. He was literally mobbed before and after every show – and he loved it. We had plans galore – more concerts, more recordings, films – you name it.

Above all, Hank was sustained by his belief in God, his love of the piano, and by the care of a trusted few friends and family who would always look out for him. This intrusive and misleading article does not accord this wonderful man the same respect.

Corey Kilgannon:

As the writer of the Hank Jones article, and a longtime fan of his music, let me clarify a few things.First, in no way did I intend to shine an unflattering light on the memory of Hank Jones. I simply wanted to augment our obituary of him, with an account of his offstage life in his final years.

I live across the street from the building, and upon hearing of Mr. Jones’ death, I called Manny Ramirez, who said he had spoken to Mr. Jones’ relatives and to a lawyer, and was ready to pack up Mr. Jones’ belongings and put them in storage for the Jones estate.

I found it touching that Mr. Jones chose such an isolated life, towards the end, and I probably could have been better at describing that it seemed by-choice, out of passion for his art, not out of depression or some sense of shame.

This was not intended to define Mr. Jones and his legacy by the condition of his room, but rather to attempt to glimpse him as a human, to add to the official and public image we already have of him. If he lived in a mansion, I would have been just as eager to visit and write about that.