our Lord God SCIENCE.

Overarching narratives, societal critiques and clarion calls for change — of the capitalist system or the social structure — have gone out of style. Today, with advances in statistical methods, many sociologists have moved to model themselves on clinical researchers with large, randomized experiments as their gold standard.

After mulling the vagaries of the mid-20s creative underclass doldrums over bibimbap at Mandu, a good friend and I took a stroll up to U Street last night for a pint at Polly’s. And proceeded to be verbally bombarded for an hour by the doorman at Twins; hollerin’ at passers-by, hustlin’ for their admittance with the promise of two bands (one jazz, one reggae), two-for-one drinks, and no cover.

His mantra thus etched in my skull, I walked up after seeing my friend off. And why not; for all the time I’ve spent in DC, my punter’s love for jazz never drove me to the place before.

It was odd. What is it about U Street jazz enclaves that makes them take design cues from Adam West’s Batcave?

Oh, and the crowd. Transitionally gentrified U Street offers an odd mix to pull into a place at random. The reggae band was at the back of the bar with me, ordering shots and trying to make groupies. Service industry kids did their best to get disorderly on a school night. Well dressed, middle aged couples and families enjoyed a drink after dinner. Hipsterish yuppies gazed into each other’s eyes through the din.

A group of shaven-headed (military?) white kids walked in, arms gauzed and bleeding from a trip to one of the tattoo parlours up the street, scoffing at the band’s suggested donation of a dollar for the Obama campaign. “I’m a Ron Paul man.” I bet you are.

They were obvs just there for the promise of free beer, backs to the stage from minute one. When the woman behind the bar (who was very appreciative of my refusal to interact with her as one would haggling with a used car salesman) informed them said promotion was over, there was much hand-wringing, gnashing of teeth, and ultimately empty threats to leave with thirst unquenched.

But over and through all the general ass-hattery of a bar on a vibrant strip desperate for warm bodies on a Tuesday, the music broke through. It didn’t hurt that Charles Rahmat Woods and his Blue Tuesday trio opened with one of the best Atlantic-era Coltrane pieces, “Mr. P.C.”, and threw in one of my all-time favorite standards, “Softly, As In A Morning Sunrise,” for good measure.

The sheer quality of the music was such that you wouldn’t expect it on a random weeknight. Jerrel Pederman hit the keys with the “‘energy style’ comping of McCoy Tyner in the 1960’s” while embellishing with early Nina Simone style Classical flourishes of drama.

Joe Link on drums brought the power and nuance of vintage Art Taylor; airy cymbal washes lulling you into a false sense of security so that the thunder could come crashing down all the more effectively.

And Woods himself played with the studious intelligence of an Eric Dolphy or a Greg Osby; sinuous as but less cheeky than Sonny Rollins. Almost like a bookish Charlie Rouse. Much like Dolphy, his turns on the flute were deceptively light, subtly mind-bending.

It was great, and it confirmed for me the sentiment that Ethan Iverson conveys in the Ronnie Mathews obit I linked above:

At its best, it felt like “the real thing.” I firmly believe that their style - and indeed, most straight-ahead jazz since the death of John Coltrane - is hard to capture on record. The music that Hicks and Mathews represent is too dependent on a communal feeling for it to be documented. It has less to do with Art than Culture. You need to be there, close to the bandstand, preferably in a small club, hopefully surrounded by other patrons who really love and understand the language.

So you’re saying the business model by which you choke entire city blocks to death with eight copies of the same goddamn middling-at-best store doesn’t work?

I don’t get it.

marklisanti:

Listening to Coldplay is a little like nibbling on a rice cake while watching an antidepressant commercial with the sound turned off.

karion:

Goddamn blasphemy all over my dashboard today. I, for one, care deeply about Crhis Cornell, inside and outside of Soundgarten, and pretty much anywhere he wants to be.

rendit:

The soundtrack did, however, lose major points for the inexplicable inclusion of the Smashing Pumpkins. And perhaps for giving Chris Cornell the false impression that anyone cared about him enough outside of Soundgarden such that he would one day feel it within his rights to cover Michael Jackson.

HA! Ok, I’ll bite — I readily admit that I really do love Euphoria Morning. But Audioslave and the new solo record make me dry heave.

Actually, the only good thing about Singles (and Pearl Jam, for that matter) is the tenuous, awesomeness-biting link to Landrew the Love Child (333) himself, Andrew Wood.

In fact, the emotional high point of the (surprisingly not bad or too obvious) soundtrack was the greatest early Aerosmith ballad rip-off that Axl or the guy from Cinderella never wrote:

The soundtrack did, however, lose major points for the inexplicable inclusion of the Smashing Pumpkins.  And perhaps for giving Chris Cornell the false impression that anyone cared about him enough outside of Soundgarden such that he would one day feel it within his rights to cover Michael Jackson.