Such an image is apt for the airy chords with which Yamamoto kicks off the title tune of Sparks, the quartet's new album on Mahakala Music. After her piano begins, like wind chimes playing standards, Parker and Hirsh fall in as if walking up from the woods, and then Fowler's stritch enters, do-re-mi-do, like a sprite carrying memories of a folk song.
“Spontaneous folk music,” says Yamamoto with a ripple of laughter, recalling the phrase Fowler used to suggest the quartet's point of departure that day. And she responded immediately to the premise, as Yamamoto herself has created hybrid free/composed jazz that sometimes harkens back to the traditional Japanese music of her youth, as on her Goshu Ondo Suite. For over a quarter century, she's made waves as she “gracefully bridges the worlds of post-bop and free jazz” according to Time Out New York, with her “evocative songs without words.”
A classically-trained pianist with a vibrant improvisational streak, she's long performed and recorded with William Parker, a composer in his own right and a mainstay of the New York free jazz community. Indeed, playing a session with Parker, who has pursued an unparalleled vision of free jazz since before his days with Cecil Taylor, and whose quartet recordings in this century are legendary, was an inspiration to all. “I've played on nine or ten albums with William as a leader,” says Yamamoto. “He's really been an eye opener for me. It was like he reminded me, 'Ah, I can be free!' And he always writes great melodies, which is very natural for me: start with a good melody, and have a lot of open space.”
With only those sentiments and a brief introductory chat guiding them, the players created these pieces on the spot. And like a strong line in visual art, a spontaneous, striking melody typically jumpstarts each performance on Sparks. That's always been at the core of Yamamoto's playing. “Growing up in Kyoto, I was surrounded by a lot of traditional Japanese music, with very minimalist melodies. I started writing music when I was eight, and I still write the same way. It all starts when I hum some melody. But even with my composed tunes, my approach is to leave a lot of space for musicians to go beyond the form.”
Space is another key element on this album. “Kyoto is a very old city, with a lot of shrines and temples,” says Yamamoto. “And zen philosophy is very prominent there. Sometimes emptiness is more full of feeling.” The space is crucial to even the more lively passages. When Parker announces, “I can pull an old rabbit out of the hat” and launches the swinging “Bob's Pink Cadillac,” Fowler and Hirsh immediately pick up on the groove, spontaneously evoking the classic trio sound of, say, Sonny Rollins' Way Out West. Yamamoto is content to listen, until she's not: reaching into the piano with her left hand, her right hand chops the keys like rim shots. As the tune evolves, Fowler squawks, Hirsh rolls, and Yamamoto is up and down from her seat, first muting strings, then playing traditionally, then plucking the strings like a ragged harp.
“That was completely spontaneous. I don't plan anything, in general. Then after I play, I don't remember anything,” Yamamoto laughs, recalling the performance. “But the piano is a percussion instrument, after all. On that one particular tune, I felt, 'I'm gonna wait until the moment comes.' And then, Boom!”
Such dynamics were typical of the day. As Fowler notes, “We expected this session to be laid back. And there are some moments of beauty and tenderness, but it was anything but mellow, overall.” That's partly thanks to Hirsh's perceptive drumming, ranging from the gentle rattle of shells to to full on Klook-mopping and bomb-dropping as the intensity demands.
Ultimately, the rapid-fire energy, the screeching and hammering, was a natural corollary to the music's spaciousness. For Yamamoto, it's all about dramatic juxtapositions. “I always like contrast in music,” she reflects. “Or in anything. Paintings, poems. The contrast makes art, especially music, more interesting. When I play something, yes, at some points the dynamics get very intense with more notes, but after that, in contrast, having a chunk of space is pretty powerful. That empty spot has more meaning. So I try not to do too much all the time. If I say something, then in the other spot I want to have a chunk of space.”
The miracle of these performances was how well each player tuned in to the others' dynamics, in the moment. Though Fowler and Yamamoto had each played with Parker separately, the saxophonist and pianist had never played together. As it turned out, they surprised each other with some distinctly Asian touchstones at the core of their playing. “'Taiko' is named after my Japanese grandmother, Taiko 'Jean' Sawyer, who passed at 92 in late April of last year,” says Fowler. “Before we started it, I asked the group to play something as a memorial for a lost loved one. My playing references some music of meaning to my grandma, including a minor key version of 'You Are My Sunshine,' her favorite song. None of that was planned, but it came out as we went.”
All told, there's an infectious joy felt as these players encounter each other in this arrangement for the first time. As Yamamoto says, “That was the first time I'd been in a recording studio for a year and half. New York City was locked down for a long time. And I'd never played with Chad or Steve before. But I could tell, just from our first greeting, that we could trust each other. So, returning to the studio with such wonderful musicians, I felt so alive. I said to myself, 'Yes! Yes!'”
She pauses and reflects on the final product. “The four of us really made one music together. Everything was just one take, and I think we really blended well. No one was shy. We just trusted each other and made one sound. Instead of going, 'I'm saying blah blah blah,' and then answering, 'da da da da,' we made one moment together. Spontaneous folk music. Improvising that moment together.”
