Описание CD

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  Исполнитель(и) :
   Mehldau, Brad  (Piano)
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  Наименование CD :

Год издания : 2000

Компания звукозаписи : Warner Bros., (ru)

Музыкальный стиль : Contemporary Jazz, Post-Bop

Время звучания : 1:09:31

  Комментарий (рецензия) :

CD, стоящие на полке рядом : Jazz (Piano - Bop)      

All songs composed by Brad Mehldau

Brad Mehldau is becoming a more interesting, more thought-provoking, more individualistic musician with each release - breaking away from the same old models, finding new ones to integrate into his own personality. The 11 compositions on this CD were conceived on the road, and only midway through did Mehldau realize that they developed similar ideas. Which indeed they do, seizing upon repeated riffing and vamps that Keith Jarrett has explored and sending them in cogent directions. The designated theme is travel; each selection bears the name of a place or mood, and the catchy, contemplative "Los Angeles" serves as the album's bookends, as well as a solo pit stop in the center. Like Elegiac Cycle, Places works like a song cycle; a unified, beautifully proportioned conception, with lots of rambunctious, swinging outbreaks amidst the contemplation. The titles in themselves mean nothing as far as the content of the music is concerned - or so he writes in another lengthy, provocative liner note. Rather, the album is about the constancy of his personality and musical language, taking all of your personal mental baggage with you wherever you travel. This is an important album, one that anyone interested in piano jazz ought to check out.

All Music Guide

========= from the cover ==========

Brad Mehldau places

It seems like the grandeur of a place only reveals itself after I've left it. Memory can make a location more 'real' than it ever was in reality. For instance, there's the scent of an object that's been brought home from somewhere far away. (It could even come from a silly item like the bug spray or deodorant that was bought and used during a vacation.) When I smell it again at home, after some time has passed, I am allowed a glimpse of something essential to my experi- ence of that place, something that was either previously hidden or didn't exist. What wells up inside me is an incredible feeling of possibility, one that's strong in a way that dislocates me from my immediate surroundings. It's all very strange. I'm not 'missing' something if that something is only being revealed to me for the first time. Furthermore, the sense of pos- sibility doesn't involve hope of what that possibility may be. It involves a deep recognition of possibility in itself, laid bare. 'Hope' and 'missing' are thrown into a kind of relief and appear strangely similar. They both only gain currency when they deal with something transient - myself. But in these moments, neither the past nor the future seems far away - they are unveiled and shimmer with immediacy. The effect is that I'm cut loose from my own transience. Alas, the feeling is temporary. After half a minute, I'm back in the everyday world that now seems more banal than ever. It's like the heavenly music in a dream that fades from your memory as soon as you wake up. It becomes a mystery. I remember feeling something intensely but can't recollect the specific nature of it, much less explain it to someone else.

Experienced through the senses, but also in dreams, poetry, and music, that kind of dislocation/recognition has been called 'the sublime.' Following Kant, Schopenhauer mentioned an initial fear in association with the sublime. In his language, the human subject experiences fear when she observes an object outside of herself, an object that is hostile to her will because of its immeasurable, incomprehensible nature. The subject/object dualism - that philosopher's thorn - is misleading because it locates the sublime quality in the object. When I have this kind of sublime experience, am I really being shown something outside of myself? Or, if you don't like that language, is it evidence of God? Then why is there a feeling of recognition? Those unheimlich or uncanny experiences touch upon a paradox: The uncanny is so disturbing and weird because of its unexplainable familiarity. Perhaps a part of myself is being revealed - a part that's always there, waiting. A place thousands of miles away can be felt with immediacy. My past events and future potential are tangible and real. That kind of consciousness is usually reserved for an all-seeing, immortal divinity. When I experience something sublime, I'm cheating, and I always get caught, thrown back into a time-bound world. But I can cheat again, because the potential is within me. If there is a deity out there, it's probably the one who always snatches the infi nite away from us. If that's true though, then from whotn did He steal the keys? Whoever or whatever it was, we have a trace of it, even now.

"Be in the moment."- What a crock! How can I be in something like that? How long is this moment? Is it one millisecond, one minute? And then what do I do - be in the next moment? That's a hell of a lot of moments to be in! Perhaps this is a western misreading of the eastern idea that the past and future are illusions. For me, it's quite the opposite. The notion of a present moment that I could somehow be 'in' is pure fiction. Maybe both of those sentiments express the same thing: our inability to catch time, to grab a hold of it.

That same person who tells me to be in the moment says I'm 'romanticizing' when I remember a place from the past with longing. He's right. 'Romantic' for me is always after, filled with lateness, whether it's Wordsworth or Kurt Cobain. At one point there was a unity to everything, a unity that was shattered. Arriving too late, the Romantic finds everything in pieces. Where there was oneness, now it's all dualities. Nothing is ever clear-cut; there's always paradox, irony. All you can do is make music from the remains, and sing about the brokenness. Romanticism implies a nostalgia for damaged goods - its subject falls in love with how fucked up everything became. Is that just a myth dreamed up by the human imagination to tell sad stories? If so, it's a convincing one, because it tells about time. Our being is marked by what Heidegger called Geworfenheit 'thrown-ness.' I've been thrown into a world of time with no choice. It's a world full of mortality everything is dying, everywhere. The problem isn't so much this reality in itself. The problem is that I care.

Near his own end, Freud surmised that there was a 'death-drive,' that so many of our activities were aimed towards achieving "...the death-like calmness of the organic world." If I could truly be in a moment, it would mean just that: death-like calmness, death. James Joyce tells in Ulysses to "Hold to the now, the here, through which all future plunges to the past." That works better for me, because his 'now' acknowledges its own role. 'Now' is only an open vessel, through which time is being siphoned, not some measurable moment that I can sit in, enclosed. That's not just a semantic query. When I mistakenly believe that I can capture time, I'm into a kind of bad faith that can be pure folly. It's a folly that leads to heartbreak, disillusionment and resignation - despair.

"For there is no big secret which the ironist hopes to discover, and which he might die or decay before discovering. There are only little mortal things to be rearranged by being redescribed."

- Richard Rorty

There's a way of looking at the world that's prevalent today, one that's often termed 'ironic' It runs like this: If someone appears sincere, whether it's a singer-songwriter, politician, or your partner, it would be safe to assume they're full of shit. The key words there are 'safe' and 'assume.' This pseudo-irony plays it safe, and safely never gets off the ground, running on its own fumes in a self-reflexive spinning of wheels. It assumes that sincerity is a posture to divert our attention from an ulterior motive, or worse yet, is a blanket used to cover up a hollow nothingness, a vapid lack of real sentiment. Good-old-fashioned irony involves the discovery that a truth - or truism - is not final or fixed. That awareness opens up a whole new set of implications. But the rub of irony (lest we forget) includes the initial desire for some form of 'truth.' Indeed, I may wind up riffing on Nietzsche and conclude that thereis no 'truth,' 'out there.' But if there's no curiosity in the first place, what's called 'irony' is an impotent affair, a catalogue of boredom with the world. As a parodistic child of irony proper, it shares a self-reflexive quality with its parent, but unwittingly. Boredom with the world, after all, begins from self-boredom. Whereas, in its original meaning irony would teach us never to assume, in this case, one always assumes - and dismisses, without inquiry.

That dismissal starts from the nostalgic belief that an authenticity has been snuffed out and everything has been named into a reduction, a one-dimensional Xerox of the original. Every single sentiment, it seems, has already been used, manipulated, or co-opted - passion, integrity, and (argghh!!!) even irony itself. Often, there's an understandable reluctance to offer up anything with sincerity, for fear of being dismissed as derivative, and having your heartfelt creation pissed on by other people, people as cripplingly 'savvy' as you are. Speculating about authenticity can mean ironic resignation because objects often only appear authentic through their palpable absence - absence from the Here and Now. There's some- thing deceitful in that gambit, because it leaves me in a state of perpetual non-attainment. I understand this kind of dissatisfaction with the Here and Now as the continuation of a romantic legacy the legacy of never being there, of being after something. If I stop there, 'art' seems like the ultimate form of deceit. It gives me the impression of something authentic in the first place itself but at a cost: My here-and-now, everyday life is thrown into a gray relief, and appears paltry and meaningless.

Ideally, a story or song allows the listener to get past that state of pining for authenticity, which is only a starting point, a kind of surface irony. Just when it seemed like adead-end gig, irony eclipses itself, and can be used to open things up, to reveal more potentiality. It prompts the reader, the viewer and the listener to ask: "To what extent is my imaginative faculty, the one that dreams for the Divine, in itself a divine attribute? If this is a fiction played out in art, what the hell is real? How do I define myself, then, and thereby find 'meaning' in my life?" That last, hopelessly bandied question isn't answered, but it's not meant to be. There's no closure, and in that sense, there's a feeling of something infinite. As I grow familiar with that 'something,' I begin to recognize it as self-generated. Nothing is fixed, everything is contingent, and my life involves a potentially endless process of debunking my own previous assumptions.

The possibility of redescription may be endless, but I'm finite. When I go, I'll merely have the latest, most recent take on everything - not the 'final' one. Within a sublime artwork, though, irony acts as a salve against itself, like a vaccine made from venom. It takes the edge off mortality, which can be such a bitch sometimes. Along the same lines, it can teach that a dream of authenticity is just that - a dream - and without dreams, we're nothing. The trick is to remember that it's only a dream.

  Соисполнители :

Jorge Rossy (Drums)
Larry Grenadier (Bass)

№ п/п

Наименование трека



   1 Los Angeles         0:05:21  
   2 29 Palms         0:05:08  
   3 Madrid         0:06:07  
   4 Amsterdam         0:03:39  
   5 Los Angeles II         0:05:18  
   6 West Hartford         0:05:40  
   7 Airport Sadness         0:04:45  
   8 Perugia         0:03:52  
   9 A Walk In The Park         0:05:59  
   10 Paris     T       0:06:31  
   11 Schloss Elmau         0:06:33  
   12 Am Zauberberg         0:07:07  
   13 Los Angeles - Reprise         0:03:31  


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