lunes, 30 de noviembre de 2009
domingo, 29 de noviembre de 2009
The Devil & Daniel Johnston
Ben webster in Europe - Johan Van der Keuke
Webster, Ben (Benjamin Francis)
Webster’s career leapt forward. He left Coy to join Jap Allen’s band, and then the band led by Blanche Calloway, before he became a member of the band led by Bennie Moten.
It was in Moten's band, some say, that swing was born, and Webster was right there, alongside William "Count" Basie on piano, Walter Page on bass, and Hot Lips Page on trumpet. Webster contributed some fine solos on tracks cut in the band’s marathon recording session in Camden, New jersey on December 13, 1932, which include the legendary "Moten Swing."
Shortly after this session, Webster returned to Kansas City, where he was hired by Andy Kirk. In June of 1934, he went to New York to play with Fletcher Henderson’s popular orchestra, leaving his chair in Kirk's band to Lester Young. He then spent several years with several of the era's leading New York-based bands, including the one led by Benny Carter, who was the first to see Webster’s potential as a ballad interpreter, on material such as "Dream Lullaby."
He played with Willie Bryant and Cab Calloway before he rejoined Henderson in July of 1937 for a year. He joined violinist Stuff Smith's band during the summer of 1938, and that autumn joined trumpeter Roy Eldridge's band in New York. During these years, he also participated in some of the era's best small-group recording sessions, including those led by pianist Teddy Wilson and Billie Holiday, on tracks such as "What a Little Moonlight Can Do."
In April of 1939, he became a member of Wilson’s short-lived big band, and was its most important soloist, but a dream came true when he was offered a permanent job in Duke Ellington’s orchestra. He left Wilson in January of 1940 to play his first job with Ellington in Boston, although he had subbed for Barney Bigard with Duke on two previous occasions, in 1935 and 1936.
Webster stayed with Ellington until early August of 1943, and it was during these years he gained national and international fame. Duke's "Cotton Tail" became his signature tune. Highlights from his years with Duke include "Jack the Bear," "Harlem Air Shaft," and "Sepia Panorama," which in this version captures Webster in top form at a dance date recording from Fargo, North Dakota in 1940.
As a tenor man, Webster started out under the influence of Hawkins, but under the influence of Ellington his style matured and became more his own. In quick tempos his solos contained great rhythmic momentum, a rasping timbre and an almost brutal aggressiveness, while his ballad playing was breathy and sensual, delivered with one of the most beautiful sounds ever captured on a tenor saxophone.
After leaving Ellington, Webster formed his own small groups or played with other small ensembles in New York, such as the one led by John Kirkby in 1944. In late 1948 he joined Ellington for a year, then returned to Kansas City to play with Buster Moten, Bob Wilson and Jay McShann.
From 1952 he divided his time between Los Angeles and New York, playing with his own groups as well as freelancing with a variety of soloists, among them singers like Billie Holiday, who can be heard with Webter on "All or Nothing at All," and Ella Fitzgerald, with whom he recorded "Do Nothing ’Till You Hear From Me," both from 1956. Other singers who favored Webster as a sideman included Carmen McRae, Frank Sinatra, and Joe Williams. He toured regularly with Jimmy Witherspoon, and the two can be heard together on "’Tain’t Nobody’s Business If I Do," recorded live at the Monterrey Jazz Festival in October of 1959.
Webster also toured with producer and Verve Records founder Norman Granz's Jazz at the Philharmonic roadshow in the fall of 1953 and 1954. It was Granz who offered Webster a recording contract that gave his career a new lift, with excellent albums that included King of the Tenors in1953, which includes his marvelous ballad playing on "Tenderly."
Other highlights of Webster's work for Verve include Ben Webster Meets Oscar Peterson from 1959, which includes his unforgettable rendition of another ballad, "In the Wee Small Hours. A fine example of his growling technique can be found on his 1958 recording with alto saxophonist Johnny Hodges, "You Need To Rock."
In early December of 1957, Webster took part in a CBS television broadcast, The Sound of Jazz,where he was reunited with both Count Basie and Billie Holiday, in one segment, and in another he joined the other other titans of the tenor saxophone in the Swing Era, Coleman Hawkins and Lester Young. This was the only occasion the three ever recorded together. The brilliance of this combination can be heard on "Fine and Mellow." Young's playing is very moving, while Hawkins brims with self-confidence, and Webster's style is intense and emotional.
In 1958, Webster performed at the Newport Jazz Festival in a tribute to Duke Ellington where his solo performance of "Chelsea Bridge" with Billy Strayhorn, Oscar Pettiford and Sonny Greer was the event's highlight.
Despite this seemingly incessant activity, Webster's star began to wane. By the early 1960s, it became difficult for him to find steady work in New York. When he received an offer to play for a month at Ronnie Scott’s Club in London in late 1964, he accepted and sailed for England.
Webster never returned to the United States. In Europe he found plenty of work, and after the successful London gig, he flew to Scandinavia for weeklong residences in Stockholm, Copenhagen, and Oslo. He settled in Amsterdam from 1966 to 1969 and then in Copenhagen. He toured frequently, mostly in Northern Europe, playing in clubs or at festivals with local bands or with expatriate and visiting American musicians, such as Benny Carter, Bill Coleman, Don Byas, Kenny Drew, Teddy Wilson, Red Mitchell, Charlie Shavers, Carmell Jones, Brew Moore, Dexter Gordon, Clark Terry, and Buck Clayton.
While his body declined during his last years, his playing never did. Until the end, Webster played with passion and intensity, and his ballad playing became even more beautiful and tender, simplified almost to the laconic and delivered with weight on every note. He never launched into double-time while playing ballads, as others did, but maintained the song’s feeling throughout while staying in the slow tempo. As he was fond of saying, ”There are only three tempos in jazz: slow, medium, and slow."
Webster was one of the unique jazz musicians whose presence comes through on every recording. Along with Hawkins and Young, he defined the sound of the saxophone during the Swing Era. His ballad playing and sound inspired virtually every saxophonist who followed, including Paul Gonsalves, Harold Ashby, Archie Shepp, Eddie ”Lockjaw” Davis, Frank Foster, Sonny Rollins, Flip Phillips, Georgie Auld, John Coltrane, Scott Hamilton, and Branford Marsalis. His rough playing and growling effects were emulated by Charlie Ventura and David Murray, and also became the stock-in-trade of rock and rhythm-and-blues saxophonists, who often combined the use of growl with altissimo notes.
Webster is the subject of two documentaries, Big Ben. Ben Webster In Europe (1967) by Johan van der Keuken, released on DVD by Eforfilms, and The Brute And The Beautiful (1989) by John Jeremy, released on VHS video by Koch Entertainment. A collection of his solos has been edited by John Alexander as Ben Webster´s Greatest transcribed Solos, published by Hal Leonard in 1995. Two biographies have been published on Webster, the first by Jeroen de Valk: Ben Webster. His Life And Music, published by Berkeley Hills Books in 2001, and Someone To Watch Over Me. The Life And Music Of Ben Webster by the second by Frank Büchmann-Møller, published by the University of Michigan Press in 2006.
The Ben Webster Collection, which includes rare private recordings, photos, films, and memorabilia, is held in Odense, Denmark, at the Music Department of the University Library of Southern Denmark.
Select Discography:
as a sideman with Teddy Wilson’s Big Band:
1939 Live!!! (Jazz Unlimited)
with Duke Ellington:
The Blanton-Webster Band (RCA)
As a leader (on Verve, unless otherwise noted):
Art Tatum-Ben Webster Quartet (1956)
Soulville (1957)
Coleman Hawkins Encounters Ben Webster (1957)
Ben Webster Meets Gerry Mulligan (1959)
See You At The Fair (1964) (Impulse)
The kids are all right - Stein
October 3, 2003 - In 1975, a 22-year-old American fan of The Who named Jeff Stein approached guitarist Pete Townshend about doing a documentary on the wild band's ways. Townshend initially rejected the idea but spoke with the band's manager and decided to do it.
So Stein and his editor Ed Rothkowitz compiled 17 minutes-worth of video footage of the band's U.S. appearances, including the band's legendary 1967 appears on The Smothers Brothers show, where they trashed their gear and destroyed Tom's acoustic guitar in the process.
The band found the whole thing hilarious, so Stein persevered. He spent two years seeking funding and footage from all over the world. He acquired video from the band's Woodstock appearance and even got 8mm footage from fans.
The end result was a hilarious look at one of the craziest and most influential rock bands of the 1970s. It would premiere shortly after the death of the band's legendary drummer Keith "The Loon" Moon. Since then, it's been released on video with seven minutes of footage removed, but for this DVD release, it's all back along with a cleaned up print, Dolby Digital 5.1 and DTS soundtrack.
The disc, most definitely, is all right.
The Movie
The film opens with the band's infamous appearance on The Smothers Brothers show, performing "My Generation." They dressed like dandies and clearly lip synched, because Keith's drumming doesn't even come close to matching what he's swinging at. In the end, equipment is trashed and Keith's drum kit explodes right next to Pete, thus rendering him deaf in one ear. Actress Bette Davis fainted backstage while watching this mayhem.
From there, you have a mix of interviews and live performances, ranging from the 1960s to a special recording session in a studio in front of 500 people. Sadly, this recording would be the last performances with Moon, who would die of an overdose from the drugs he took to help him stop drinking.
The next clip is a 1965 performance of "I Can't Explain" from the British show Shindig, followed by the studio performance of "Baba O'Reilly." It's ironic that with all the footage he collected, Stein couldn't find a decent recording of The Who's most famous songs. The contrast in video quality is enormous, too, since Shindig was done in 16mm black and white film while the studio recording was done on 35mm film.
Many of the video clips are from the 1960s, so the quality is somewhat dubious. The interview segments are often better, at least in terms of appearance. Moon has some goofy interviews (well, what else would they be?) with Beatles drummer Ringo Starr, where both are blitzed during the "interview."
There's also a ridiculous segment where the band is in the studio and they let Moon sing The Beach Boys' "Barbara Ann," which ends dismally. This segment shows Moon in tough shape, as he was over 30 and overweight, his years of wild living catching up with him with interest.
Interspersed with the Moon-acy is a lot of Pete Townshend, rock philosopher, thinking out loud on the importance of all things music. There's also one of the most famous segments ever involving the band's stoic bassist, the late John Entwhistle, where he takes down some of his gold records and uses them for skeet shooting practice.
It ends with a memorable performance of "Won't Get Fooled Again," complete with laser show. This would prove the last performance ever of the original lineup, as Moon would pass away a few months later.
If there's a complaint to be had, it's that there are too many interviews. I'd have preferred "Bargain" or "Behind Blue Eyes" rather than more of Pete's musings. Unlike Led Zeppelin, The Who would soldier on following the death of their celebrated, maniac drummer. All things considered, they probably shouldn't have. I'd much rather remember them this way than from the It's Hard album.
Score: 8 out of 10
The Video
The video is presented in anamorphic, 16:9 widescreen format with a stellar bit rate of 8.46MB/sec., and considering the source materials, it's fantastic. Obviously those 1965 black and white performances aren't going to look all that hot. That said, they don't look terrible, either.
Some of the live performances on stage were done in very poor lighting, so it's hard to see much of anything. Most of their 1970s interviews and the 1977 studio recording, in particular, look very good.
There does not appear to be any edge enhancement or ghosting around the edges. Black levels are solid is the newer clips, grainy in others. Bright colors hold up well with little grain. There are only occasional flicks of dust on the print, which shows a good clean-up job on the film.
You're not going to watch this for the video, anyway, but given the age and source material, it's quite good.
Score: 8 out of 10
Languages and Audio
Obviously it's all in English. There are four audio tracks: DTS, Dolby Digital 5.1, Dolby two-channel, and a commentary track by director Jeff Stein. The audio has been remastered from the source material and it's super. It's not quite on par with the Led Zepplin DVD disc, but it's close.
As usual, the DTS track is the top performer. Some of the separation is really amazing. Pete Townshend's guitar is very strong in the right channel during some segments, because he stood on our right/stage left. But all five primary channels were cranking loud and clear. Even the LFE channel got in on the fun, adding a few touches of thump, just enough to add to the mix without diminishing it.
There are some segments, particularly "Young Man Blues" (which Stein found in a trash container) where the audio distorts, and pretty badly. In this instance you are better off switching to the Dolby Digital track, because the distortion is less pronounced.
A day with the Boys - Clu Gulager
Sherman's March - Ross McElwee
Sherman’s March
En Sherman’s March (1), que siguió a Backyard, exploré de forma más completa las posibilidades subjetivas de narración y la creación de un “personaje” del realizador, que era tan importante para lo que sucede en el film como cualquier otro de sus objetos fílmicos. El subtítulo algo raro del film es: “Una reflexión sobre la posibilidad de un amor romántico en el Sur durante una era de proliferación de armas nucleares”, pero quizas no sea una mala descripción de los principales temas que el film contiene. Sherman’s empieza con una introducción que enseña un mapa, como un documental históricamente didáctico, con Richard Leacock(padre fundador en Estados Unidos del cine vérité supuestamente sin narración), dando voz a una narración patrón en off que describe la campaña destructiva del General Wiliam Sherman en 1864 durante la Guerra Civil Americana. (Sherman es considerado como el primero comandante militar en los tiempos modernos en haber lanzado una guerra contra una población civil, vaticinando lo que podría ser una guerra nuclear). Sin embargo, el verdadero curso del film es revelado de inmediato. El realizador describe, en una voz en off sombría, la reciente finalización de una relación amorosa y su resistencia en emprender el proyecto pretendido – un documental sobre los efectos duraderos de la marcha devastadora de Sherman en el Sur, durante la Guerra Civil. En vez de eso, el film es un registro del realizador en búsqueda de una nueva novia. A medida que recorre la ruta de Sherman por las Carolinas y por Georgia, se encuentra con siete mujeres del Sur, que pacientemente intentan seguir con sus tareas diarias mientras son grabadas. Manteniéndose fiel a este concepto original, el realizador cuenta también la historia de la propia Marcha de Sherman, parando en los campos de batalla para reflexionar sobre la proliferación de instalaciones nucleares y sobre los campamentos de “sobrevivencialistas” con los que se encuentra por el camino. (2)
Con Sherman’s March esperaba (aparte de encontrar una nueva compañera) profundizar en un estilo de realización que tuviese una “voz” definible. No estoy hablando de una voz en un sentido literal, como la “voz en off”, aunque ésta sea un elemento, sino de una voz que indique la “presencia de un autor” tras la cámara. Esa voz de autor que viviría en el film, que estaría presente, lo propulsaría, sería transmitida por una amalgama de procedimientos.
Otro aspecto de mi realización en Sherman´s March, es la percepción de la ausencia de equipo de rodaje. En el film, desvelo con bastante prontitud, por diferentes medios, que soy yo el que se ocupa en solitario de la imagen y del sonido. De esta manera se crea un espacio solitario apropiado para las confesiones, en el que se invita a entrar al espectador.
Un tercer factor que deseaba experimentar con una mayor profundidad era la voz en off. Para introducir al público en el tono confidencial se hacía necesario que ésta fuera subjetiva, con un tono confesional, y, siempre que fuese posible, humorística,. Tenía que hablar bajo, en un tono que se acercase a veces a la sotto voce. La narración debía hacerse a modo de conversación, con sus silencios y sus dudas. Y tenía que utilizar el tiempo presente, si bien en el film aparecen reflexiones sobre acontecimientos del pasado, tanto histórico como personal.
El cuarto procedimiento que quería utilizar en Sherman’s March, eran los monólogos del realizador dirigidos a la cámara. La cámara se convierte casi en un personaje. El cineasta se remite a ella. Utilizaría los monólogos con parsimonia, de manera que el cineasta apareciese en imagen sobre todo por la noche para discutir los acontecimientos del día, y adoptando ante la cámara un tono confesional. Lo que es evidente es que la cámara me vuelve tímido. Al iniciar el rodaje no quería filmar estos monólogos. Pero en Backyard me había apercibido, y estaba aún más claro en el caso de Sherman’s March, de que tenía que pasar por esta suerte de actuación basada en los acontecimientos que tenían lugar en mi “auténtica vida” durante este período.
Al aparecer en mi propio film, me liberaba finalmente de cualquier pretensión de objetividad, ese pesado lastre que el documental arrastra desde hace mucho tiempo. El documentalista vuelve la cámara sobre sí en busca de una realidad más subjetiva, diferente. Esta técnica sería un intento de perversión de la distanciación brechtiana , en la que todos los elementos en juego recuerdan al público que “no se encuentra más que ante una obra”. Yo quería decir al público: “No es más que un film, pero un film que habla de mi vida, que resulta ser una historia verdadera”.
Este mismo efecto puede insinuarse, en el film autobiográfico, en las secuencias en las que no aparece el cineasta. El público es consciente de que la persona filmada sabe que está siendo filmada, que hay una cámara en la habitación. No existe una pretensión de hacer la cámara invisible, como ocurre en los films de ficción tradicionales o en el cinéma-vérité. (…)
En Sherman’s March, trabajo sobre esta distancia. En cierto sentido este film pide, tanto al espectador como al cineasta, tener un pie dentro del mundo, ese mundo que habitualmente vemos desfilar ante nosotros a 24 imágenes por segundo, mientras mantiene otro pie en el espacio que nos ofrece la invisibilidad -el “desplazamiento” de Stanley Cavell-. Trato de mantenerme en equilibrio sobre esta distancia. A veces resulta algo penoso, y me siento como un ladrón al que sorprendiese la alarma en el momento en que mete su pierna por la ventana del salón. Pero cuando todo sale bien , desplazar el “desplazamiento” permite acceder al espectador a lugares que habitualmente no ocupa. Le ofrece la posibilidad de entrar en el espacio de la autobiografía de otro. En ese momento, como por arte de magia, se funden, primera y tercera persona.
El último procedimiento que quería experimentar en el film era la doble revelación de mi identidad y de la del general Sherman, recitando pasajes de su diario y de sus cuadernos de notas que, a medida que sigo su itinerario, permiten establecer un paralelismo con mi propia vida. Ciertos pasajes tendrían un efecto irónico, mientras que otros podrían tener un sentido en sí y su propia virtud de emocionar. Al reforzar, en el film, mi identidad, mi propio personaje con el del general Sherman, trataba de definir una voz más compleja.
(…) En mis intentos de encontrar una voz no ficticia y autobiográfica, el mayor peligro sería la tentación de conceder a las imágenes una importancia secundaria, de convertirlas en un simple tablón de anuncios donde colgar manifiestos narrativos. Y no creo estar lejos de la complacencia narrativa, en Time Indefinite. No obstante, en todos mis films autobiográficos he tratado de dibujar un motivo oscilante en el que se van dejando paso la inmersión en mi vida personal y el mundo que me rodea, el mundo visible.
Lo que funciona muy bien en el cinéma-vérité, cuando funciona, es que el público comprende que se trata de la “verdadera vida”. No existe ninguna escritura previa, ningún atisbo de interpretación ante la cámara. Lo que vemos es lo que el realizador ha conseguido captar del flujo real de la vida. Así, el cinéma-vérité está impregnado por un cierto nerviosismo, por una leve agitación, por una torpeza que llama la atención del espectador. En Sherman’s March, filmo a Karen, una vieja amiga, que, evidentemente, sabe que la estoy filmando. Karen se comporta de una manera levemente diferente a la habitual. Quizás se incorpore más sobre la silla, o pase la mano por su pelo con cierto nerviosismo porque está siendo filmada. Ese leve embarazo, esa vulnerabilidad, es lo que nos mete en el film. La consciencia del cineasta de una situación embarazosa -las vacilaciones que percibimos en la voz en off, el movimiento de la imagen cuando se confronta a esta cuestión: cómo seguir siendo un ser humano cuando mantiene en equilibrio sobre sus hombros siete quilos de material-, también forma parte de la ecuación. Ese embarazo ayuda a levantar el toldo de la tienda -la de la realidad- para permitir al espectador entrar en el film, ocupar el espacio de la acción. Cuando presenciamos films auténticamente rodados en la “verdadera vida”, aparece siempre en ellos un leve temblor, un suspense. Por este motivo creo que no funcionan las “reconstrucciones documentales” -una auténtica locura, en la actualidad, en los programas televisados americanos-.
En estos instantes filmados, la vida habla de sí misma con patetismo, con humor, incluso, si el cineasta tiene suficiente suerte o viveza para captarla. (…) Sobre todo es una cuestión de suerte. El público comprende, y se regocija. Ese momento, que tiene la espontaneidad, el carácter imprevisible de la verdadera vida, me recuerda lo que me condujo a hacer en primer lugar films de no ficción. Charles Baudelaire, al celebrar los pintores capaces de captar “el heroísmo de la vida moderna”, citaba a Gustave Courbet: “No puedo pintar ángeles porque nunca los he visto”. El fotógrafo Robert Frank se alineaba con esta sensibilidad cuando declaraba: “La fotografía debe contener una cosa: la humanidad del instante”. Cuando se realiza un film de no ficción, se espera recoger el mayor número posible de este tipo de momentos.
Pero, ¿qué ocurre con esos momentos en un film en el que se consigue filmar el mundo en toda su complejidad, en su humanidad, a la vez que incluye al cineasta y su relación con la gente que se encuentra ante la cámara? Según mi parecer, es ahí donde el film autobiográfico alcanza todas sus posibilidades. Esto no ocurre muy a menudo, ya que todo depende de la atmósfera y del azar. Pero, ¿qué ocurre con esos momentos en un film en el que se consigue filmar el mundo en toda su complejidad, en su humanidad, a la vez que incluye al cineasta y su relación con la gente que se encuentra ante la cámara? Según mi parecer, es ahí donde el film autobiográfico alcanza todas sus posibilidades. Esto no ocurre muy a menudo, ya que todo depende de la atmósfera y del azar.
"In 1975, as a graduate student at MIT's Film Section, I began filming "chapters" from my own life and the lives of people close to me. Those chapters coalesced into two films, "Charleen," about my wise and flamboyant high school teacher, and "Backyard," about my relationship to my surgeon father and my medical school-bound brother. "Backyard" reveals my father's pride in my brother's choice of careers, as well as his somewhat puzzled concern about my choice--making documentary "home movies." He would say to me "Why don't you try to make nature films." Instead, I went on to make "Sherman's March: A Meditation on the Possibility of Romantic Love In the South During an Era of Nuclear Weapons Proliferation," an absurd title, but one which aptly summed up the major themes of the film. In it, I retraced General Sherman's destructive Civil War route, interweaving this journey with portraits of seven southern women I met along the way.
"Sherman's March " achieved wide acclaim, and led to a sequel, "Time Indefinite," in which I document my somewhat awkward shift into adulthood, getting married (finally), and then having to confront the sudden death of my father. At the end of the film, I become a father myself. In "Something To Do With the Wall," my wife and I reflect upon growing up in the shadow of the Cold War as we film life along the Berlin Wall. I recently completed "Six O'Clock News," a film about local television news and the fears a father can have about raising a child in a society such as the one we see reflected in the six o'clock news.
Each of these films explores new territory for me, but in almost all of them, members of my immediate and extended family reappear over a nineteen year span. This fact adds, I believe, an additional dimension to my work, providing a record of both how much and how little my family has changed over time."