Swimmingpools spielen eine rare Rolle, aber ich unterschlage Erinnerungen, würde ich den Serientraum aus Kindertagen aus dem Spiel lassen, das warme Wasser, in dem die Füße spielen, und die Magierin, die von hinten an mich herantritt. Im Süden Spaniens jetzt ein anderer Traum, und tatsächlich strömt in der Dämmerung, aus schwarzen Lautsprechern, die zweite Sologitarrenplatte von Bill Connors, mit ihrem Hauch von Latino, und einem dritten Swimmingpool (auf dem Cover), der nicht weniger zum Verweilen animiert als dieser hier, und jener aus den frühen Märchen aus 1001 Nacht. (m.e.)

In den ersten Minuten dieses Albums der bolivianisch-amerikanischen Geschwister Chuquimamani Condori und Joshua Chuquimia Crampton, da glitzern die Gitarren wie Tempelglocken und bilden dämmernde Akkorde. Stürme von Geräuschen wehen hindurch, mal verblüffend in ihrem zischenden Rauschen, mal fremdartig in ihrem Glanz und Rauschen. In von menschlichen und maschinellen Effekten verfremdeten Klangfarben sprechen „Voiceovers“ einleitend und rückblickend über etwas, das wie Stereofelder von lokalen Radiosendungen klingt. It’s a strange world. Irgendetwas passiert hier. Aber was? Nun, wir haben eine interessante Interpretation der Andenmusik. Über Jahrzehnte haben die Musiker diesen Boden vorbereitet, alte Rhythmen von ihren Großeltern gelernt und an Klangzeremonien teilgenommen. Im Jahr 2023 haben sie ein kleines Fenster in die Welt von Los Thuthanaka für die Öffentlichkeit gebaut. In einer aufschlussreichen Ausstellung im MoMA boten sie den Besuchern Kopfhörer und einen Sitzplatz vor einer monumentalen Collage an. Zu den Bildern gehörten traditionelle Medizin und Tiere, die in den Erzählungen der Eingeborenen eine zentrale Rolle spielen. An anderer Stelle hockt ein Ahnenpaar mütterlicherseits zwischen einem monumentalen Soundsystem und schießt Glasscherben und Blitze in den Nachthimmel. Los Thuthanaka klingt so, wie man sich dieses Wandbild vorstellen könnte. Und das ist erst der Anfang.

Manchen mag Kevin Ayers bekannt sein, aus alten Hippietagen, von frühen Soft Machine-Alben, oder seinen Soloalben. Oder von seinem „Lampenfieber“. Er stand für fantasievolles, postiv versponnenes Liedergut, undals er einmal nach vielen Jahren der Stille anno 1992 mit einem feinen „Comeback“-Album daherkam, freuten sich die „alten Fans“, wie unverbraucht seine Stimme und sein Charme daherkamen.

Michael Frank traf ihn damals in meiner alten Heimat in Dortmund zum Gespräch. Und Freunde seiner Musik werden HIER das eine und andere von Interesse finden, etwa seine Kindheitsvorliebe dafür, die Dinge des Lebens langsam anzugehen. „The Unfairground“ war sein letztes Werk – ich habe es in guter Erinnerung, und ganz sicher ein, zwei Songs daraus in den frühen Jahren der „Klanghorizonte“ gespielt. John Mulvey schrieb damals:

„From what I can tell, Ayers seems to have been mooching about the south of France for an extraordinarily long time, probably doing not much more than some fairly concerted wine-tasting. We spent a while yesterday trying to work out what he lives on – does he have independent means, maybe? But Ayers always comes across as one of those charming, insouciant wasters who sort of glide through life untroubled by the dreary realities that trouble the rest of us. In fact, listening to „The Unfairground“, Ayers tackles angst, romantic mishaps and fear of ageing with a sort of rueful shrug.“

Unser Interview mit Robert Fripp aus dem Jahre 1997 findet sich in diesem „Blogtagebuch“ am 28. März – unter dem Titel „Everything broken will flow“. m.e.)

SIDE 1 

1 DON’T CRY NO TEARS

Zuma opens with joyous, chiming guitars, heralding a new lineup for his doughty lieutenants and his emergence from the darkness of the Ditch…

ALAN SPARHAWK: Pulling a few parts from a song called “I Wonder” that he’d written as a teenager, Neil Young and Crazy Horse kick off the record with this tight electric strummer. After losing Danny Whitten three years prior, this would be the world’s introduction to Frank Sampedro on guitar. The new lineup became the foundational combo that went on to decades of recordings and legendary live shows. The arrangement is very simple – drums, bass and two electric guitars, barrelling into the horizon – but it’s a pop gem, a stomping melodic ringer with vocal harmonies that attest to the fact that the rhythm section, Ralph Molina and Billy Talbot, originally started together performing as a doo-wop group. Three-part harmony is a secret and beautiful weapon. I’ve played this song in a Neil & Crazy Horse tribute band from where I live [Tired Eyes]. I love the opening Aadd9 to A riff in the intro, I love singing the vocal harmonies on the chorus hook and I love hearing Rich [Mattson] hit the big, dirty, country-tinged guitar solo. It’s not the first or last layered ‘(I’m hurt, but) I don’t want to hear about how I hurt you’ song from Neil, but this seems especially pointed, in the wake of the recent breakup of his relationship with Carrie Snodgress. There would be more pointed, expansive and iconic tracks later in the album, but this is perhaps the song that most adeptly strikes the balance between loose/fuzzy and focused/funky. It is the arrival of a band that would anchor an era and influence generations.

2 DANGER BIRD

Young unleashes “Old Black”, creating a guitar sound so potent it made Lou Reed cry every time he heard the song…

KURT VILE: I remember when I first heard “Danger Bird” in my early twenties. At the end there’s a part where the band sings along, then he jams. You think the song is over but then he does that Neil thing and comes back for another verse, he goes to that same change, but this time there are no vocals. He hits a descending chord then digs in one last time with that crazy lick that just pokes through the speakers. Me and my friend just looked at each other. It still hits me every time. He is lost in his guitar. Lou Reed was in love with that guitar tone and it feels like the first time Neil got that sound in the studio, maybe piggy-backing two amps together and getting that really distorted, crunchy reverb sound. It symbolises Zuma. I’m not sure he found it again until Rust Never Sleeps.

He often has bookends. In this case it’s the second track and the second-to-last. He’s not messing around – there’s a catchy song to start then he introduces the vibe with “Danger Bird”. It’s structured a bit like the first album with Crazy Horse or On The Beach, with these longer tracks that are more like mantras. “Danger Bird” is a looser version of that. I know that I could make out all the words if I wanted, but you can let it wash over you, just like that Danger Bird does in the sky. “Danger Bird” stands for Zuma. You address that first. It’s something new but with those elements that already existed and living a life we can only dream of.

3 PARDON MY HEART

Written immediately after his split from Carrie Snodgress, Neil previewed this vulnerable acoustic hymn at New York’s Bottom Line in May 1974: “It’s one of the saddest love songs I’ve ever heard.”

SARABETH TUCEK:I clearly remember the first time I listened to Zuma. I was in Oakland, recording my first demos with a friend in his home studio. I’d heard several of the songs, but never the whole thing in one sitting. I was nervous recording, so I made a rookie mistake and drank too much whiskey and fell off my stool while doing my vocals. My friend said I needed to relax, that I needed to listen to Zuma alone while laying on the floor. So I laid down, he dropped the needle, left the room and I left Planet Earth.

“Pardon My Heart” is really good at expressing that time in a relationship when you kind of know it’s over, but you reflect back to better times and it’s just this painful back and forth. The lines that kill me are: “It’s a sad communication/With little reason to believe/When one isn’t giving/And one pretends to receive”. It captures that inner tussle and wondering if you both are just going through the motions. I read Neil Young has only played it live twice. From the title, I feel that maybe he’s embarrassed about expressing these feelings. Like, ‘Excuse me for doing this, but I have to tell you.’ It’s a simple love song that describes something very complex. It’s the poetry you make from a deep conversation with yourself. It’s the getting ready to say goodbye. It’s true and beautiful and I’m grateful for its words. Good songs help.

4 LOOKIN’ FOR A LOVE

After the Zuma Beach sessions, Young and the Horse decamped to his Broken Arrow ranch. This late addition to the album was recorded after Young underwent throat surgery and finds him cautiously optimistic, reflected in its sunnier country-rock outlook.

EVAN DANDO: The Stones had that three-album run of Beggars Banquet, Let It Bleed and Sticky Fingers, and I think Neil Young was kind of like that with On The Beach, Tonight’s The Night and Zuma. For me,it’s a really similar phase of time in his career. “Lookin’ For A Love” is just beautiful. He’s not afraid to say what he thinks. He’s not worried about being goofy and fucked up and weird. That’s what’s awesome about him. He doesn’t give a shit, man. “Lookin’ For A Love” is like a hymn, it’s all the notes you want to hear. The part where he goes [sings]: “Where the sun hits the water/And the mountains meet the sand/There’s a beach that I walk along sometimes/And maybe there I’ll meet her/And we’ll start to say hello/And never stop to think of any other time”. It’s like a really wonderful melody in its normalness. And there’s something about those electric guitar arpeggios, they’re so even and perfect to time.

“For me, Crazy Horse are like the definitive garage band”

EVAN DANDO

My favourite part is the fadeout, where he’s like [sings]: “When she starts to see the darker side of me”. It’s all just falsetto at the end. It’s a perfect recording – beautiful, fragile and really shattering. For me, Crazy Horse are like the definitive garage band. More than anything, I would just love to be in that band. They’re doing something so simple, but it’s also fucking transcendent and archetypal. I’m so envious. No-one records like Neil Young.

5 BARSTOOL BLUES

A woozy yarn written after a day of drinking – “I woke up and I went, ‘Fuck!’ I couldn’t remember writing it…”

MJ LENDERMAN: I read [Jimmy McDonough’s biography] Shakey and loved the story about Zuma and “Barstool Blues”. There was a lot of cocaine and alcohol involved. They recorded in this house in Malibu in a very small room and I don’t know how they managed to get the record to sound so good, being so loud in such a tight space. “Barstool Blues” is a pretty simple, straightforward song, but the thing I really like about it is, it’s a bit nerdy. A normal blues would be played on three chords, the 1 chord, the 4 chord and the 5 chord. This song goes 5, 4, 1 on the verses, but where the 4 is supposed to be they substitute a minor 2, which I feel pulls on the heart a lot more. It’s that additional emotion in the music that always got me.

I always picture this one as a bar scene. Maybe he’s there in Malibu around all these famous women and he pictures an ageing superstar sitting in the bar reading the tabloids and celebrity magazines and thinking about the people in the pages. It seemed like a weird time for Neil, post-Carrie. He was in Malibu with piles of coke, lots of women in bikinis coming off the beach. He’d been through the CSNY tour and seemed to have this real distaste for Hollywood and celebrity. This era is my Neil sweet spot, the stretch from On The Beach and into American Stars ’n Bars plus Homegrown, which never came out at the time and is awesome.”

SIDE 2 

1 STUPID GIRL

Unflinchingly raw and arguably the cruellest song in Young’s canon (“ You’re just a stupid girl/You really got a lot to learn ”), cut with Crazy Horse at 4am. “We were all messed up,” he confided later.

CHRIS FORSYTH: I’ll start by noting that I’m of the belief that Neil Young is an artist who has limited ability, or inclination, to evaluate his own material – he just channels it, puts it out, and moves on. The upshot of this dynamic is that Neil’s work, for better or worse, can be unfiltered to the point of being erratic. “Stupid Girl” certainly seems to be a case in point. Unlike the Stones’ song of the same name, there’s no campy wink in the delivery, just pure venom.

Whereas Jagger often seemed to ratchet up his misogyny as a calculated, trolling provocation, Neil’s scorn for his subject feels palpably, bitterly, crudely sincere. He really means it. The lyrics on the page are mean-spirited enough; however, I think it’s actually the vocal take itself that pins the discomfort needle in the red. But then again, much of Neil’s work, especially the Ditch-era stuff, is a musical manifestation of the darkness, decadence, and discomfort of the times, and “Stupid Girl” is not here to make anyone feel good. Neil doesn’t even sound like he’s enjoying it, exactly.

Considering Neil Young’s status as a rich, indulged player in the fast and loose ’70s, it’s easy to read “Stupid Girl” as an asshole rock star’s callous dismissal of a woman on the losing end of the grossly imbalanced backstage sexual power dynamic. It’s not pretty. But if you listen to Neil Young precisely for his lack of filter, this is as raw as it gets. And he’s not pretending otherwise.

2 DRIVE BACK

Young and Poncho Sampedro lock in to clamorous effect, complete with splenetic lyric: “ Drive back to your old town/I wanna wake up with no-one around ”.

STEVE WYNN, THE DREAM SYNDICATE: I was 15 years old when Zuma came out. I’d been listening daily to Tonight’s The Night, which had come out six months earlier and turned my head around, changing my entire idea of what kind of singing, playing, chemistry and sounds were possible on a record – my first brush with the notion that things didn’t always have to be technically good, ideally realised, well crafted, to be effective. This album almost felt like a disappointment in how easy it went down. But sometimes easy is good. And… that tone.

Zuma is the record where Neil Young and Crazy Horse found their sound, their essence, their tone. Sure, Neil had flirted with the crunch and ooze that two guitars could conjure up previously on songs like “Cinnamon Girl” and “Southern Man”, but it was Zuma where he brought Frank Sampedro on board and they found that sound. You know it when you hear it. It’s the Crazy Horse sound – the one he pretty much stuck with year after year right to the point where I saw them play what will likely be one of their last shows last summer in Forest Hills.

“They found that sound. You know it when you hear it… that primordial ooze”

STEVE WYNN

You could take “Drive Back” and put it pretty much on any Crazy Horse album that followed and it would fit right in. This is the song, more than any other on the album, that digs deep, hunkers down and gets that primordial ooze that bands have tried to get ever since. But nobody can do it like they could.

3 CORTEZ THE KILLER

Astonishingly, the first song Young and the Horse recorded for Zuma – on May 22, 1975 – this sweeping, phantasmagorical epic was later banned (according to Young) by General Franco. A missing verse – lost during a powercut at Briggs’ rental – was unexpectedly reinstated by Young on the Horse’s truncated 2024 tour…

BLAKE MILLS: “Cortez…” starts with this elongated instrumental stretch and a chord progression that keeps cycling without ever resolving. What that creates for me is this sense of a song that never comes home. The vocal melody does the same live orig “Th an a unr Yo a so doo Jan to r mo Ho aft fro its thing, it never quite arrives or peaks in the way you might expect. So this is a piece of music that never comes home and it’s a story of people being robbed of their home, or at least this idealised version of what home was like before somebody came and fucked it all up. As a song, it is such a good document of that thing they do as Crazy Horse. Their strengths do not rely on flawless execution. It’s more like Charlie Chaplin cat-walking across a roof and miraculously not falling off.

Neil was part of an extremely political generation of musicians who were writing these songs protesting the world they were seeing. They were young and pissed off. “Cortez…” feels like part of that tradition of commenting about injustice as a source of inspiration. The other interesting thing he does is the final verse, where he suddenly breaks the history lesson and personalises it in a way that leave a question – what time period is he singing from? He suddenly weaves the narrator in, in a way that makes the whole thing feel less academic and historical. You get no real sense of the character who sings the song until that very last verse, when he swoops in like David Attenborough.

4 THROUGH MY SAILS

Recorded with Crosby, Stills and Nash at Young’s Broken Arrow ranch prior to their 1974 tour, Zuma ’s closer finds sustenance in warm, pristine harmonies, sparse acoustic backing and the leisurely echo of congas. “ It feels like I’m gone… ”

STEVE GUNN: “There are so many different layers to Zuma. It seems like a departure, the end of a relationship and his whole CSNY life. “Through My Sails” is such an emotional and vulnerable song and I think there’s a pattern of his where he’d find something very appropriate that might not be from that session and use it to end the record. He does the same on American Stars ’n Bars with “Will To Love”. I think he is more careful about the sequencing than you might think. There’s a lot of subtlety there.

This was originally a CSNY tune and probably one they rejected as it’s so Neil. You can hear their harmonies, but it has Neil’s very dreamlike quality. There was always tension with that group and Neil was always the outsider, so I think he put this song here to close that chapter because the machine of that supergroup was taking him in a direction he didn’t want to go.

I came to Neil through grunge and as I learnt more about his life and the way he approached music and celebrity, I found it so interesting. The albums around this time are so rich, with this meditative atmosphere. There is something particularly fractured and delicate about this. I know I picked the one with hardly any guitar and a lot of the other heavier songs are amazing, but I feel this is the perfect way to end a record. It’s mysterious, loose and it feels very poignant.

UNCUT: What was Neil’s mood going into Zuma following the break-up with Carrie and the CSNY ‘Doom’ tour?

BILLY TALBOT: My main memory of Zuma is being in Malibu in some bar having a beer with Neil and talking about how he was happy that we were going to do some recording. He was happy about that, and that’s all he was thinking about. I don’t think he was thinking much about Crosby, Stills & Nash at that point. He was past that. Neil is always moving forward. As for Carrie, it wasn’t spoken. It was like any other gang. You don’t speak about things when you are trying to get past them – you try to have a good time, but you don’t moan and groan because that’s not how to get past things. If you do any moaning and groaning, you do it by yourself. 

What was it about Poncho that made you think he’d work for Crazy Horse?

He had a simple new attitude towards music. He wasn’t somebody who had been playing music with everybody always telling him how great he was or anything like that. He always loved the music, he loved playing and he loved making music. He wasn’t trying to be a star in any way. He wasn’t not trying to be a star, he just wasn’t thinking in that way and that’s what I liked. So I asked him to come and join us somehow. He came to my house, we played together a bit, then I invited Ralph and Neil down and we all played and it was fun. That’s all we could ask for, as Danny had passed.

Was there a point where you realised this was the new Crazy Horse?

We didn’t talk about this being Crazy Horse, it all just happened. Neil went to Chicago and invited all three of us to join him – me and Ralph and Poncho. I said we should bring him as it would work, and we did and it did – it worked. When the record [Zuma] was released eventually, we called it Neil Young And Crazy Horse, but we weren’t thinking about that at the moment. We were just trying to get back on track. Danny passing was a real blow. That was what we’d been doing for years. Ralph and Danny and I had been traipsing around as a vocal group, then decided to start playing instruments. Then we got together with Neil and just as we were really getting into it, Danny passed. It was a disruption to this whole force that had been moving forward, so we had to regroup and find our way. We did, fortunately. I guess it was in the cards. It just gelled – but like anything that comes together, it was one of those things. 

How did Poncho change the sound of Crazy Horse?

Poncho is another person, so it’s bound to be different. That’s how it is in life. Each one of us is unique. Especially in a group when you have three or four guys. Danny was one person, he was himself and he’d been great with us, and now he was gone and Poncho came into the picture and he was also himself. If there was any change to the Horse that was it, the new element. 

Tell me about the vibe at Briggs’ beach house – it sounds quite wild?

It might sound wild and at times it might have been a little wild, but we were more interested in the music because Neil was taking us in that direction. He really wanted to do what he wanted to do – and he wanted us to do it with him. He didn’t lose sight of that picture and what he wanted to create. He kept the partying to a minimum, so I don’t know where these stories all came from. 

Who else was around the house during the sessions?

James “Sandy” Mazzeo was there, he did the cover. He was in the house with me and Ralph and Poncho and two or three others. We were staying on the beach in Malibu, you can’t complain about that. The weather wasn’t the best, it was foggy in the morning, but I was a young man away from my family and all these things taken together are kind of like a formula for adventure and it all shows up in the music. 

How did you get such a good sound from the small room you recorded in?

When we record with Neil, we don’t think about leakage that much. What we wanted to do on Zuma was play together in the same room and whoever was engineering had to find a way to record that. We played together as a band and it’s better for any band to play in the same room than separately. 

“It just gelled”: Frank Sampedro (right) with Young and Billy Talbot in Copenhagen, March 16, 1976

Visitors: Bob Dylan; (below) Rod Stewart and Britt Ekland

Why a house?

When you go into a studio, you are there for one reason – to record. That immediately puts a mood on it. When you are in a house, you aren’t thinking the same. You set up and you play and that’s the best thing for a musician to be thinking. Not that you’re about to record, but that you’re about to play. That was good for Crazy Horse. Neil could go into the studio with CSNY and big-time producers with reputations, he could handle that – but it affected Crazy Horse in a detrimental way. Music is music, and once it’s released you can listen to it and it doesn’t matter if it was recorded in a house or a studio. But in the house, we could be ourselves. 

“It’s better for any band to play in the same room” 

BILLY TALBOT

How about the individual songs?

I really remember “Cortez…” because we were doing it and the power went out. We kept playing because we didn’t realise the power was out – it was working in our room, it was in the other room where they were recording. The power came back on and we were still playing. It went off about halfway through the song and came back for the last two-thirds. We then stuck it all together but there was always this missing verse. Then when we did the last tour, Neil reintroduced it. That was the first time I’d heard it since Malibu. I don’t know how he found it, but somehow he did. We played it live and it’s back in the song. 

Was Neil working out some of his issues with the break-up on songs like “Stupid Girl” and “Barstool Blues”?

“Barstool Blues” maybe, but not “Stupid Girl”. I think “Stupid Girl” was just an interesting idea for a song and he was having fun with that one. “Barstool Blues” was definitely a reflection of that time, being in a bar alone or maybe with your mates and basically thinking about not being with your woman any more. That’s a state that a person finds themself in in certain circumstances.

GIJSBERT HANEKROOT/REDFERNS; VINCE MAGGIORA/SAN FRANCISCO CHRONICLE VIA GETTY IMAGES; HELMUT REISS/UNITED ARCHIVES VIA GETTY IMAGES 

Do you remember Bob Dylan popping in?

I remember Bob popping in and then popping out. He jammed on a song or two and I did my best without knowing what the song was or anything about it. With Neil we would discuss the changes. We might play simply, but we’d know the changes and that’s important. Bob didn’t tell us the changes, so I am sure it was a unique experience for him as well as for us. 

How about Rod Stewart?

He was interested in seeing if Neil had a song he could do. So Neil played one of our tracks to him and because he wasn’t interested in Rod Stewart doing a cover of his, he played something from the record he liked but knew Rod Stewart would never do – it might have been “Drive Back”. It was a little odd, but he had a very beautiful woman with him [Britt Ekland] and that’s the main thing I remember. He then had a big hit with “I Don’t Want To Talk About It”, Danny’s song. He might have got it at that session. 

At what point did you realise you were making a record?

Whenever we recorded, we thought of it as a record that would be released, but we didn’t really think about that – it’s about what we are doing in the moment. That sort of stuff doesn’t get to me – what is going to happen to it afterwards. I am trying to concentrate on what the hell is going on, so I can put myself into whatever I am playing on the bass. 

What was the Northern California Coastal Bar Tour like?

We went to these places that were dark outside then lit up inside. People were surprised to see us. When we played it was fun, because it kept the music alive. It wasn’t like this thing you’re supposed to do because you’re up on a stage with thousands of people waiting to hear you. It was nothing like that. We played these spaces where it was a surprise we were there, so the whole feel of the performance was in a different place for everybody. I don’t think we made money playing those bars, but we had fun. 

Do you think of Zuma as a key album for the Horse?

Back in those days, it was just what we were doing. When you look back, that’s one thing, but when you are in the midst of things, you’re just trying to make sense of the moment and what’s happening. Poncho came in and it started working and that was good, that’s all we knew. We weren’t thinking beyond that. When I look back, I feel it is a really good record. What we have done every time, on Zuma or anything else, is a coming together of the band and each one is about its own time and the music that represents that time. 

INTERVIEW: PETER WATTS

album: anouar brahem
film: neil young coastal (april, 17, one evening, worldwide)
prose: „und man hört sie doch.“ (hg: martina w.)
talk: erik and jan on „manafon variations“
radio: „playlist in motion“
binge: „families like ours“
archive: joe henderson

„Bei der Auswahl von Titeln für seine Kompositionen, die die palästinensische Erfahrung thematisieren, war Anouar Brahem nicht von einem didaktischen oder propagandistischen Ziel getrieben: Dies wären Ziele, die seiner feinfühligen (…) Sensibilität völlig fremd wären. Aber er konnte auch nicht den Eindruck erwecken, dass seine Musik von der Wut, der Trauer und dem Kummer, die Gaza in ihm auslöste, unberührt blieb. Es ist zu früh, um zu sagen, ob man sich an dieses „Quartett für das Ende der Zeit“ als Vorbote des Endes von Gaza erinnern wird, oder vielmehr als Vorbote des lang ersehnten Endes des Leidens in Gaza. Man kann jedoch sicher sein, dass dieses Album für immer die Spuren seiner Herkunft tragen wird. „Musik erinnert sich an uns“, schreibt Jeremy Eichler in Time’s Echo, seiner ergreifenden Studie über Musik, die nach der Shoah komponiert wurde. „Musik spiegelt die Menschen und Gesellschaften wider, die sie geschaffen haben, sie fängt etwas Wesentliches ein, das sie in die Zeit ihrer Entstehung zurückversetzt. Die Erinnerung wird von den Kadenzen, den Offenbarungen, den Trübungen und dem tragischen Pathos der Musik heimgesucht“.

(aus den liner notes von Adam Shatz zu Anouar Brahems „After The Last Sky“, übersetzt aus einer französischen Vorlage mit deepl ins Deutsche, die Cd enthält die englische Fassung)

In den letzten Tagen waren meine Erinnerungen ab und an unterwegs in einem Damals, das die erste Hälfte der Siebziger Jahre darstellt, mit einem Arsenal von Zeitreisetechniken: Alltagstrancen, Rumstöbern im Netz, „Köln 75“, der Film, das Wiederhören der langen ersten Seite von „The Köln Concert“, und, nicht zuletzt, das Versinken in der „Relativty Suite“ von Don Cherry nach Ewigkeiten… die Platte gehörte im Wintersemester 74/75 im Doppelzimmer 510 des „I-Hauses“ zur Grundausstattung der Musikversorgung von David Webster und mir.

Ein zufällig zusammengewürfeltes Schicksalsduo für zwei Semester, David lernte den Free Jazz kennen, und ich drang tiefer denn je ins „Weisse Album“ der Beatles vor. Dank der Erinnerungen von Richard Williams öffnete sich jene Tür im fünften Stock wieder, als er zu seinen Don Cherry-Inselalben kam. Das Stichwort lieferte ein Satz von Ethan Iverson: “Folk music, surrealism, the blues, the avant-garde, deep intelligence, primitive emotion.” – es wae an Ornette Colemans Album „Science Fiction“ von 1972 gerichtet.

„That’s good“, reagierte Richard darauf, und führte aus: „And, as much as I love Cherry’ work with Coleman, Albert Ayler and Gato Barbieri, my favourite Cherry albums are probably those that best encapsulate the full range of those qualities, and of his imagination. They would be Eternal Rhythm, Relativity Suite from 1973 (with the JCOA, never reissued in any form since its its first appearance on vinyl), and the wonderful Modern Art: Stockholm 1977, a concert at the city’s Museum of Modern Art, which appeared on the Mellotronen label in 2014.“

Das „Modern Art“ Album von 1977 kenne ich gar nicht, aber die fast vergessene „Relativity Suite“ wurde flugs auf dem raren Markt vergrabener Schätze aufgetan, und voller Begeisterung neu gehört. Fast wie beim ersten Mal. Es ist der 13. Januar 1975, nasskaltes Januarwetter. Fünfundzwanzig sorgsam für die grosse Reise in die zweite Heimat ausgewählte Langspielplatten stehen, sorgsam im Schatten platziert, an der Wand, mit dabei „Diary“, „Lord of the Rings“, „Facing You“, und „Third“. Davids Kassettenrecorder gibt „Happiness is a warm gun“ von sich, John Lennon auf der Höhe seiner Kunst, und es ist schon später Abend, fast Nacht.

Während das Album noch läuft, ist David schon eingeschlafen, ich lese bei spärlichem Licht noch ein Kapitel in Ralf Oerters „Entwicklungspsychologie“, auch ein gutes Einschlafmittel, und draussen, nur wenige Kilometer Luftlinie entfernt, sitzt ein übermüdeter Musikproduzent am Steuer seines zitronengelben Renault und fährt einen unruhig schlafenen Keith Jarrett Richtung Köln. Sie fahren gerade an Würzburg vorbei, und der Produzent verwirft den Gedanken, hier auf einem Rastplatz ein wenig Schlaf nachzuholen. Ich bekomme von alldem natürlich nichts mit, hole am nöchsten Morgen die Post bei Herrn Kopka in der Pforte ab. Ein Päckchen von „Jazz by Post“ ist angekommen, mit Bennie Maupins „The Jewel In The Lotus“. Drei Wochen später verliebe ich mich im rumpeligen Fahrstuhl unseres Wohnheims. Das Leben nimmt einmal mehr volle Fahrt auf.

Auf der linken Seite sitzen nur Männer und spielen Domino, vorne am grossen geöffneten Fenster spielen zwei Alte Gitarre. Jeden Abend kommen sie in die Bar und spielen ihre Lieder. Sie singen vom Heimweh nach Venezuela. Es sind Einheimische, Herreños, die wieder zurück auf ihre Geburtsinsel El Hierro gefunden haben, nachdem sie viele Jahre in Übersee waren. In der Bar herrscht eine düstere Stimmung, die Männer schweigen beim Hin und Herschieben der Steine, immer wieder fasziniert mich diese Stille beim Spiel.Es ist das Fremde, das mich beeindruckt, das Kommunizieren ohne Worte. Domingo Pio heisst der Mann an der kleinen Gitarre, der Timple. Ihm hat der beste Gitarrist der Insel, Ruperto, eine musikalische Hommage gewidmet. Mir gelang es, Ruperto zu einem kleinen Interview zu gewinnen:

Ruperto, kommst du aus einer musikalischen Familie, sang deine Mutter, spielte dein Vater ein Instrument?

Ja, mein Vater war Musiker, er spielte Geige, Temple, Gitarre und Banduria. Und meine Mutter sang sehr gerne.

Wann hast du angefangen, Gitarre zu spielen?

Mit 8 Jahren.

Hast du dir das mehr oder weniger selber beigebracht?

Ja habe ich- Wer hat dir deine erste Gitarre geschenkt?

Mein Vater hatte eine zuhause.

Hast du dann in einer Jugendband gespielt oder immer alleine?

Mit einer Schülerband.

Deine Frau und deine Söhne treten auch zusammen mit dir auf. Hast du deine Frau auf einem Konzert kennengelernt?

Ja auch das ist richtig.

Dir macht es auch viel Freude zu singen. Die Texte sind alle von dir, woher nimmst du die Inspiration für sie?

Aus dem täglichen Geschehen, was ich so beobachte im Dorf und den Menschen hier.

Spielst du am liebsten alleine oder in Gruppen?

Ja vorzugsweise alleine.

Vielen Dank Ruperto für das Interview.

Mich interessieren in jedem Land die Interaktion zwischen Naturräumen oder auch Grossstädten und Tönen, Klängen. Wie kommt es, dass die Musik der Insel relativ gleich klingt, egal , ob es Kirchenlieder oder Folkloreanlässe oder gar Tangotakte sind. Ihre Pito, so heisst die einheimische Flöte hat, nur 8 Töne, genau wie die irische Pipe. Sie bringt aber erstaunlich vielfältigere Melodien hervor , man höre mal The Road to Kilkenny zum Vergleich. Die Einheimischen sind stille genossen. Sie führen ein hartes Leben in der kargen Wirtschaftswelt. Sie sind Fischer und Schäfer und romantisieren nicht das Meer, so wie es Rio Reiser in dem Lied „Übers Meer“ singt.Ruperto besingt in seinen Songs das stille Meer, Mar de las Calmas,die Erde, das Licht, die Frauen und die Freunde. Mehrere Texte gehen über die Bäume, die Pino Verde, den Wasserspenderbaum, über den Sabina, das Wahrzeichen von El Hierro. In seinen sehr langen Balladen ähnlichen Liedern singt er über die Verzweifelten, die Migrationsbewegungen über Familienbanden, und hebt immer wieder die Mutter hervor,“Madre del Herreño“ heisst mein Lieblingslied. Als ich ihn bat mir drei Texte von den Songs zu geben, die mir am besten gefallen, lacht er und sagt, das ist alles nur in meinem Kopf. Er kann auch keine Noten, er spielt alles aus dem Kopf. Diese einfachen Melodien haben einen gewinnenden Ausdruck von musikalischer Schönheit- Oder wie Joachim Ernst Berendt es besser sagt: Wenn Formen uns vertraut werde, brechen kulturelle Barrieren ein.

William Tyler: Time Indefinite   
Eiko Ishibashi: Antigone  
Arve Henriksen et al: Arcanum   
Kuunatic: Wheels of Ömon   
Bennie Maupin: the Jewel In The Lotus (1973)
Amelia Barrett & Bryan Ferry: Loose Talk
Rebecca Karijord: The Bell Tower   
Natural Information Society and Bitchin Bajas: Totality  
Angel Bat Dawid & Naima Nefertari: Journey to Nabta Playa  
Don Cherry:  Relativity Suite (1971)  
Jan Bang / Ensemble Modern: With These Hands  
Hirsoshi Yashimura: Flora  (1987)
Bon Iver: Sabel fAbel
Vic Mars: The Beacons
Cate Brooks: Easel Studies
Labyrinthe des Esprits: The Cosmic Hunt

(this list of promising new or forthcoming albums, of reissues and buried treasures, will be continued every once in a while….any ideas?! There may be changes though, and, well, not so much of this „ocean of sound“ will gloom in that radio hour at the end of May („Klanghorizonte“ / Deutschlandfunk). Blame it on a perfect sequence! Peace, Michael Engelbrecht!)

A little story about „sequencing“: in the early years of the „Punktfestival“, composer and percussionist Adam Rudolph sat at my side, in the aeroplane from Amsterdam to Kristiansand. Asked what he will play, he spoke about doing „a little trance thing there“ refering to the music he made under the moniker of „Hu! Vibrational“. The album „Beautiful“ had been released in 2004.

Soon we were talking about one of his heroes, Don Cherry, Don’s years in Scandinavia, his impact on young Jan Garbarek, and (now you will get my point, dear reader, with a look at my brainstorming on possible records to play!) that during the days of that New York production of Bennie Maupin‘s „The Jewel In The Lotus“, little Adam was a curious and „entranced“ witness sitting in the control room while it all happened – experiencing Bennie live while „painting his masterpiece“!

And playing a piece of that album (that will be re-released within the „Luminessence“ vinyl series of ECM soon), it would only natural to give Don Cherry‘s „Relativity Suite“ from 1971 some airplay (an album that is utterly beautiful, and, strange enough, never got a more than well-deserved reissue). And having played a track of that one, maybe „The Dance of the Hobbits“, it would only be natural to contnue with Angel Bat Dawid‘s „Journey To Nabta Playa“ (an album, on which Angel and Naima enthsiastically enter the world of Don Cherry‘s and Moki’s old paradise in Sweden)!

Now look: start with Mr. Maupin, (1)
ask Adam Rudolph about teenage memories,
play Relativity Suite, (2)
tell the story about the journey to Nabta Playa, (3)
followed by „Desireless“ – (4)
and the hour would be over!

(Jan Garbarek had his first encounter with „Desireless“ when listening to Cherry‘s „Suite“: there that little gem with an irresistible melody is fucking brilliant 1 minute and 30 seconds short. Jan thought, well, let‘s do it as long that it fills a whole side of vinyl – and it happened on side 2 of „Witchi-Tai-To“.)

“Universal Beings“

McCraven’s second album proper of ‘organic beats music’ almost incidentally internationalises the new London scene, bringing its figureheads into a bigger world. The Chicago-based drummer/ producer also offers a belated sequel to Teo Macero’s ground-breaking electric Miles cut-ups, by subjecting live improv to extensive post-production. His quest for raw material ranged from Chicago to a Queens basement bar, an LA garage and London’s cruelly closed scene-catalyst Total Refreshment Centre. Searching for the specific in these scattered local musicians, McCraven’s production then blurs borders to reaffirm their underlying community. When applause washes over the chopped up, yet flowing, soul-funk of ‘Young Genius’, and McCraven’s cymbal-splashes softly, seismically ripple, there is a constructed sense of organic place. Time, too, is reconfigured but real, retaining improv’s in-the-moment spark. (Nick Hasted, Jazzwise)