Music fanatics in general and jazz/improvisation geeks in particular tend to over-analyse things. That probably includes you, the reader of these notes, as well. Admit it: we are all so caught up in these names, dates, labels, formats and references, that to outsiders, we must look like a bunch of deranged freaks. And we haven’t even started yet about our favourite artists, whose work we have played, no devoured, until it became almost completely internalised, as if the music flows through ourselves. Of course there are improvisers whose theoretical, compositional frameworks deserve intense and deep scrutiny, and even academic studies. Sometimes, however, it feels as though we listen with so many expectations and presumptions that it must restrict our experience in some way. I know it has happened to me.
I am not arguing here that improvised music is a thing that pops up out of nothing, like a miraculous appearance, with the artist merely passing it on. Of course there is more than that: improvising musicians have trained themselves to keep the distance between their brain and their hands (or whatever they use to actually create sounds) as short as possible, and it helps them if they practise and study a lot, translate their experiences into artistic focus. Still: just like a musician can’t always predict what happens and might be surprised how things turn out, the listener regularly needs to be reminded of the same thing. You can’t always put your finger on what happens.
Praxis is the kind of album that might remind you of the time when you were a less experienced listener and as a novice were surprised on a more regular basis. Maybe it is because the musicians maintain such an open mind themselves. There seems to be no urge to get anywhere in particular, no stress to reach quick resolutions, to work towards climaxes. Despite the emergence of abrupt sounds and crooked twists, this three-way discussion boasts a flowing freedom, with ideas popping up at a steady pace. Sometimes they linger, and sometimes they don’t. Quick, stabbing punctures are replaced with longer, extended sounds. And those sounds are often unconventional, the result of extended techniques.
By focusing on these sound properties – some of them natural, others manipulated – you are steered towards a different way of listening. It’s the classic ‘the journey, not the destination’ attitude. Dealing with the moment. Dirk Serries, Martina Verhoeven and Colin Webster have a refreshing take on that. They use instruments, but it feels as if they are playing with wood and metal. With breath and touch. They caress, pluck, sigh, thump, blow, push, creak, sputter. There is no obvious order to what they are doing, yet you are aware of a certain concord, an understanding below the surface of what’s there. The openness is a reminder of the autonomy of all the sounds, but is also a way of making you appreciate the amount of trust and intimacy.
You can describe these seven tracks in detail, compare the dynamics, volumes, density, shifting roles and used strategies, but for once I advise you to maintain a certain distance. A kind of naiveté even. Try to listen as if you are overhearing people talking on a different continent, in a language you don’t understand. Get used to the sounds, the flow, intonation and the rhythm before you try to figure out what they’re actually saying. Especially when they are at their most abstract, when the shapes become irregular and the percussive sounds mimic the morse code of some made-up language, you might be in for a surprise.
Guy Peters 2019
