Jason Ajemian's Smokeless Heat - “With or Without the Universalator (Birdie’s Dream)” (Delmark 2008)
Jason Ajemian’s Smokeless Heat – The Art of Dying / Delmark
I want to start this review by looking at the liner notes to The Art of Dying. It seems like a nit-picky, superfluous approach though, so I really should just close this booklet and walk away. Close my eyes, enjoy the music, and write on just the sonic peculiarities. But they are just so damn weird! Ajemian rolls from baseball analogies to the formation of his trio – Smokeless Heat (see baseball analogies for reference) featuring saxophonist Tim Haldeman and drummer Noritaka Tanaka – to Scott Tuma’s homemade instrument, the Universalator, to the death of a sea lion, which of course becomes a metaphor itself, and into a little universal questioning: “Can we see an art in dying, or the great love that lives in pain, or bliss in honesty and selfless discovery?” Good question. I don’t know myself, don’t have a clue in fact. But this random assortment of ideas is telling in itself. The way Ajemian takes an idea, blends it into the next despite such off-setting subjects, tinkers with reminiscences and rhetorical questions, gets lost in his own pondering thoughts, and slips into traditional jazz gab, “Music – music, sound – sound, we focused in the moment and the fashion with which to discover, recover and sonically relate,” makes for an excellent analogy to his playing. The Art of Dying is not a singular idea. The music shifts and wanders; toys with one direction then immediately backtracks to try the other fork; spends six minutes developing a phrase and condenses the very next track to just fourteen seconds; and of course challenges, but with an approachable warmness that is the steadfastness of the underground Chicago jazz scene.
The opening track title, “With or Without the Universalator (Birdie’s Dream),” references a conversation the Chicago-based bassist had with Tuma concerning his quirkily named mechanical drone device, but the music is far from anything at all in regards to drone, mechanics, or even Tuma’s experimental Americana background. Instead, it’s a cool-toned, melodic workout right out of Blue Note’s early-60s discography with guitarist Matt Schneider playing the part of Grant Green and Ajemian providing a versatile, light-toned bass line à la Bob Cranshaw. Trumpeter Jaimie Branch extends the depth by distance miking her calmly swinging horn while marimba player Jason Adasiwicz accentuates the melodic chords and Tanaka unleashes a mid-song rant of brushed kit.
“Miss O” dons a similar set-up, but with Haldeman taking the climax. His tenor is confident, full-bodied and surprisingly tender, sounding much like the direct product of a classic middleweight saxophonist like Hank Mobley. He certainly bucks his horn when need be – see the scathing “U’re the Guy (Keith Wood)” for example – but for the most part, he remains in a patient post-bop motif. Which works well with the similar-minded Branch, as “Manisia Lynn” proves. A close-miked, room-less tune – to the point where the clicking of the tenor’s keys is clearly heard – Ajemian plays moderator to Haldeman and Branch’s phrasal conversation. Haldeman lays down his story with only a brief, quickly stifled interjection from Branch before the saxophonist gets agitated and eventually concedes with soft tonal yearns. Branch jumps in at an excusal tempo, but it must be too little too late, because the song concludes on a rather sober, sighing and inconclusive note.
The album is rounded out with a twenty-four minute piece recorded live by the Smokeless Heat Trio at WMSE Radio in Milwaukee. It’s a searching, drawn-out song with a number of twists and turns, none of which in particular stand out, but when taken at a whole makes for quite the listen. The trio is mercurial with their transitions; one second Ajemian is bowing his bass while Haldeman squeaks in the upper registers of his horn, and before you know it, they’ve set into a relaxed post-bop workout behind Tanaka’s steady cymbal rhythm. There isn’t a single out-of-step moment, which is not an easy feat for three players to achieve over the course of a twenty-plus minute piece.
The Art of Dying is a rather melodramatic name for such a welcoming set of jazz tunes. Ajemian guides his cohorts through a gamut of styles, but none of which concedes to the sensational or theatrical performance that the title might suggest. But perhaps this is his point, or at least the point of his story of the dying sea lion in the liner notes, beached and slowly drifting in and out of consciousness only to be inhumanely brought back to awareness by prodding sticks and nets. “A music that drifts in song and rhythm – loses self-reflection and awareness,” Ajemian states. And it’s true, this album does effortlessly glide along; it soothes and wanders, but just as you lose consciousness of its details, it abruptly changes its course, forcing you to find comfort in their next approach. “Can we see an art in dying, or the great love that lives in pain, or bliss in honesty and selfless discovery?” Umm, well I still don’t know the answer to that question… Music’s good though.
