By: Ilya Ratner
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| Electropolis's Brian Roessler (background) and Michael Ferrier - Photo by Ilya Ratner |
Inventiveness—even when bizarre and seemingly unfathomable—often becomes elucidation. A unified notion sets in stone and something amazing and unique forms; something that inspires. Something like Miles Davis’Bitches Brew, which electrified the straight-edged jazz scene. But is Electropolis's chaotic orchestration a parallel to such ingenuity, or is it merely self-indulgence?
Their self-titled album made the question difficult to answer. It was certainly interesting, yet also non-cohesive and erratic. The freedom of their music was often wonderful to take in. But sometimes it meandered nowhere. Was Electropoliscacophony or creativity? Was the album a harbinger of calamity, or did it prophesize potential brilliance?
I walked into the Dakota Jazz Club and Restaurant unsure of what would happen. A lounge jazz piano act was just ending. Elderly couples doddered out on frail limbs, smiling gleefully and holding hands. Important looking businessmen followed them out, mistresses in hand. Eventually the lounge enthusiasts were replaced by a younger, higher crowd. Only a few baby-boomers remained—they didn’t know what was coming.
Electropolis pounced on the unsuspecting boomers, who must have felt that their relaxing respite on the beach was suddenly interrupted by Darth Vader and his entire intergalactic fleet. Michael Ferrier’s “electrosax” and Kelly Rossum’s “electrumpet” bombarded the Dakota with interstellar sounds. The two had more gizmos and gadgets than Bill Nye the Science Guy and once the sounds were compressed, attenuated, spray painted and minced they squirmed irreverently, not as saxophone and trumpet but as eerie and electronic fragments of music. The dimly lit and intimate jazz haven took on a diabolical hue.
Bassist Brian Roessler and drummer Steve Roehm barely kept these sounds intact. But even they often abandoned dimensions of prediction and ventured out into space. The bass dissolved into underwater reverb and the beat scattered in all directions. At such moments, time slowed down. At such moments, I was at a loss. Songs became moody odysseys. They were like neon fabric—pulsating, becoming distorted and shape-shifting. It was engaging, disarming, and even evocative. Though for some reason I mostly thought of robots and Dante.
After an hour of echoes and warbles and zaps my mind became unreceptive. The music was wondering aimlessly about, lost in an alien dimension. As my friend said, “It was pretty much hit or miss.” The slowness and the clashing effects wore on you. I kept hoping for a little arrangement, a little less freedom, and a bit more musicianship and altruism. But I soon found that this melee would be eternally lost in self-indulgence. To me music is best when it can be shared between musician and listener. That night such an idea would have only materialized under the influence of very strong drugs. There was no sharing.
Though these cats may be guilty of vanity, they could easily do something beautiful and shareable. They just have to make an effort to write something down. Only a semblance of structure is needed, there’s always plenty of space to improvise. But who knows their whims and their aspirations? Perhaps they only want to make themselves happy, and perhaps there’s nothing wrong with that.
Location Info:
Dakota Jazz Club
Artist Info: Electropolis
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