Page 25 - Jazz
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AVISHAI COHEN  	 On classical feeling and modern framing

                	 The temptation to constantly look out of the window. However
                I sit, I try to have within eye’s reach fragments of trees and buildings
                 over which there passes lighting of different intensities from that inner
                 camera which takes pictures even in the absence of any intention

                  to look, stores them, takes them out again and reprojects them,
                  sometimes, when I am not expecting it to, in the atmosphere of a
                   given moment and a particular place that are far from the present.
                   		 I am listening to an impressive piece that reminds me of
                    the much-lamented Esbjörn Svensson, a track from an album by

                    a young American trumpeter, Christian Scott: Litany against fear.
                     Strangely close this backing to the piano accompaniment, you
                     would say it was the same hand continuing (in the vast perspective
                      of life) to take part in the great performance, spanning with sound
                      the distance between continents and modelling itself on the

                       blowing of the trumpet. And although I am sitting here in the
                       depths of late autumn, a mysterious metamorphosis all at once
                        changes the scene into one of spring. And so it is spring again
                        and rain is falling. I opened the window and entered the smell

                         of rain freshly fallen on just-sprouted vegetation and on dusty
                         earth and on the summer-houses of dry wood in the garden and
                          on the low hum of the city, since I frequently think of the low
                          hum of the city as a background sound from which I cannot
                          escape and from which, in any case, I would probably not even

                           be happy to escape. And against the background of Charles
                           Lloyd’s Hymn to the Mother, which settles itself out little
                            by little as the disjointed notes fall, my restless and image-
                             creating thoughts jump from place to place, grouping and

                             regrouping, pushing each other away, trying to disentangle
                              and organise themselves, as if each of them had a separate
                              and totally anarchic life.
                              	 And so it strikes me that the world of jazz of an ambient,
                               blue, melodic character is populated especially by women’s

                               voices whose coloratura is well suited to atmospheric jazz

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