Pandemonium followed. Jarrett retorted that he couldn't play his music, or possibly any music. "What do you want me to play?" he asked, testily. The audience missed the sarcasm and started calling out names of songs and groups. ("The Cure!") Several people called out "Summertime." Finally, Jarrett sat down at the keyboard and started playing fast and loud. A minute later, the tune emerged: Summertime. There was a collective sigh from the audience, although it seemed clear to me that he was doing this in anger (You want "Summertime"? All right, I'll show you "Summertime"!) I was reminded of jazz joints in the French Quarter, where you pay to have the band play a tune, but you have to pay extra to get them to play "When the Saints Go Marching In," again.)
Things cooled off a bit after that, and Jarrett spun out the song nicely. At the end, he acknowledged that it might have been a good idea. ("I didn't think of that.") He played a third piece, and finished with a quick, fourth piece that echoed the opening number. Done. Short second half.
The audience was still of many minds. Some applauded loudly, while others sat silently, perhaps waiting for the house lights to come on so they could get the hell out of there. Jarrett returned and played an encore: Somewhere Over the Rainbow. It's a sweet, sad version; when he played it as an encore on the Tokyo recording, it sounded charming and intimate. I thought he might have chosen it as a nice gesture; not an apology, but maybe a way of calming tempers, mending hurt feelings. But when tonight's audience recognized the tune, they laughed. Have an audience and a performer ever been less in sync?
A second encore followed, and a third, both loud and jazzy. The fourth encore was a song-like piece. It may have been the most successful piece of the evening, either because the coughers had already left the hall (much of the audience was gone by then, some fleeing during the shouting match), or because Jarrett was in a better mood. A fifth and final encore, and then it was really, finally over.
I'm a true believer that silence is golden, and I don't understand why people cough loudly, why they don't muffle themselves with handkerchiefs. But in a group of 2,743 people (the concert was sold out), the odds are excellent that someone will cough. By going off the deep end about it, Jarrett made this the focus of the concert, sensitizing the audience to the point where, when someone inevitably coughed, we flinched.
So, enough about the fiasco of flaring tempers. What about the music?
The opening piece was pretty strange: flying fingers, much crossing of hands, no chords, no key. A flurry of notes, then silence. Hummingbird music. It seemed to be a warm-up piece, in both senses. It returned as the last piece on the program, by which time it at least was familiar.
The second piece was a long meditation on the natural minor scale ("no sharps"). The third piece was a stomping, 4/4 blues number, interesting until to the point where he landed back at the home chord and decided never to leave home again, which I found taxing. The stomping was real: Jarrett played standing or crouching, no pedal, and eventually stomping on every beat. He also started his characteristic "singing," which is somewhere between moaning and just wildly off-pitch vocalizing. I cannot be the only person struck by the irony of an anti-coughing zealot who obscures his own music by singing along, out of tune. I didn't like it with Glenn Gould or Emmanuel Ax, either.
The fourth piece, like the fourth encore, was a gorgeous song. I think this is Jarrett at his best. A beautiful line, later paired with a second, lower voice, surrounded by rich harmonies, completely tonal, giving our Western ears a comfortable sense of structure. There were two more pieces before intermission, each in a different texture; Jarrett's stylistic palette has many colors.
The second half opened with another quiet song, in B flat, I think. Shimmering with trills and repeated notes, exploring in new and interesting directions, this seemed likely to be a contender for the best piece of the night, only to be cut short, any happy feelings immediately overwhelmed in the fight that followed.
I saw Jarrett play here in 1994. His program then seemed more improvisatory than this one (which comes on the heels of performances in Chicago and Los Angeles), but I thought the muse was not with him that evening. He seemed to struggle, and eventually settled down into some nice, comfortable, straightforward jazz, which no one plays better. I remember that he had his issues with coughing back then, too, ridiculing someone who coughed by mimicking them with chords to match their coughs. After a six-year hiatus, my hopes were high for this evening.
Jarrett is still a brilliant musician and pianist. Live performances, however, may no longer be the right thing for him. Perhaps he finds inspiration before an audience that he doesn't find in a recording studio. It's risky, and tonight we saw it go south.
1 comment:
I attended the Keith Jarrett concert last night. While your description of the sequence of events is accurate, you neglected to mention the first "request" played by Jarrett following the exchange of hectoring (from the stage) and catcalls (from the audience). After repeated shouts of "just play", Jarrett sat down at the bench and responded, in effect, all right, what do you want to hear me play? A ballad? A standard? Someone called out "What is This Thing Called Love". Immediately, Jarrett launched into a fiery rendition of the Cole Porter classic. Jarrett played it brilliantly. From that point to the end of the concert, there was virtually no more coughing. Jarrett had finally gotten his point across: an improvisational concert is a two-way street, demanding concentration from the audience, not simply as a gesture of respect for the artist, but as an active form of collaboration in the performance. You could feel the quiet during the last 30 minutes of the show. I've always judged Jarrett's irascible temperament harshly, but last night he made a compelling argument through his performance for a degree of audience attentiveness that, unfortunately, is too rarely in evidence.
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