This is doing to Jazz what happened to commercial Country music. Namely what Rock did to Country before Rap... [shudder]. The best here tracks have no lyrics. Nothing that would require a “Parental Advisory Explicit Content” sticker.
Fold out cover minus sticker.
We’ll come back to that in a moment after making something sterling clear. I absolutely hate Jazz. Across the board, woman says she’s into that crap and I’m into the street - Gone Daddy O, Gone.
So if I had to pick a way to experience Jazz that would be indelibly painful. Two white guys from England being given artificial chops for their efforts ring-a-ding-ding’s that bell with cloying certainty. Scat, I mean Skat theoretically never sounded so awful.
Thankfully this is not Jazz, Experimental Jazz, Contemporary Jazz... This is an undercover shitstorming metal drummer brought in as hitter (wait till you get a load of this guy) by a record label losing relevance vanishingly quick to paper over the guy who’s name comes first’s efforts. Luckily they let the drummer bring in Pino Palladino’s kid and his fretless bass for a couple tracks. Because the rest is mostly exactly what I described above or worse.
We’re going to ease into this with a Jazz cover they forgot to invite someone or their recording engineer to take part in. Surefire way to make sure of it being a hit, not a Misch. (Look at me practicing British style journalism).
First we have the original toss off album filler from 1974 by Stanley Clarke.
Here’s what that sounds like pushed out to five and half minutes losing any guise of being a filler.
Alright, time for Liftoff! This is where not only Stage One of the Misch’l detaches. Stage two sinks back into the muck after Dayes floating back to earth. Only one of these guys is going into orbit. (I’m of a few minds if he’s taking the Ukrainian dancers with or if they are interpreting the flames chasing out of a rocket tail cone and burn up.)