The Groove Keeps Moving
Music is, at essence, an ephemeral thing. All of it, from plainsong to classical symphonies to contemporary pop. It's only recorded music that has created the illusion that music is a fixed thing. Music is communication and, like all communication, is of the moment when it occurs. No two performances are ever the same, even for the most rigidly scored piece, since it's the individual musicians who inform its evanescent presence with their knowledge, understanding, and perception of a piece.
That's especially true of jazz - intentionally improvisational, it lives precisely in the moment, with an immediacy no other form can match. Live performance is where jazz meets its public, struts its stuff, and flirts with chaos and madness. Sam Rivers was one of those rare beings who could face up to the uncertainty of a night on the bandstand, grab it by the tail and turn it into something magical. Sax, flute, piano - whatever instrument he picked up or sat down with, he could spin a tale from the top of his head that could leave you gasping, crying, and hoping for one more chorus.
Sam's gone now, playing and rehearsing his band right up to the end. Those of you who got a chance to see him play live, count yourselves lucky. For everybody else, there are the recordings, and they'll give you a hint, just a hint, of what it was like. So the next time one of those jazz giants comes around your town, go see them and listen carefully. You never know which chance is going to be the last one.
That's especially true of jazz - intentionally improvisational, it lives precisely in the moment, with an immediacy no other form can match. Live performance is where jazz meets its public, struts its stuff, and flirts with chaos and madness. Sam Rivers was one of those rare beings who could face up to the uncertainty of a night on the bandstand, grab it by the tail and turn it into something magical. Sax, flute, piano - whatever instrument he picked up or sat down with, he could spin a tale from the top of his head that could leave you gasping, crying, and hoping for one more chorus.
Sam's gone now, playing and rehearsing his band right up to the end. Those of you who got a chance to see him play live, count yourselves lucky. For everybody else, there are the recordings, and they'll give you a hint, just a hint, of what it was like. So the next time one of those jazz giants comes around your town, go see them and listen carefully. You never know which chance is going to be the last one.