Reviewed by Graham Marlowe
Choir Fight Makes Its Point
Thick, homey fumes of authentic Mexican food wafted through Charles Allis Art Museum Thursday night as Choir Fight, a fiery Milwaukee jazz sextet, proved to a modest thirty that, while jazz may not be the fringe culture springboard it once was, the music itself is far from dead. For a band so moist with creativity, the odor was especially fitting.
The evening’s natural, off-white light show was somewhat romantic for jazz, which often burns from whatever midnight oil venues are willing to provide. But as that sunset poked its weary head through faux-stained glass windows, it made me wonder how such intimacy continues to slip the cracks of a music industry that seemingly discourages it.
Choir Fight is, perhaps, the perfect jazz for adrenalized rock fans. However, the group has a sensitive interpretive touch unmatched by most “modern” jazz acts. Not only have they successfully modernized the materials of jazz, they also have a refreshing perspective on nineties rock, the Beatles, and of course Miles Davis.
Surrounded by thin, reverberant walls, audience members sat, transfixed by the coolness of spirit that they’ve come to associate with the group.
“Eleanor Rigby” began set one with a light, crisp hip-hop flavor, and channeled the dizzy, offbeat blues of “Come Together” before actually reaching it. The bandmembers read each other like the chapters of a weathered paperback, one memory at a time. This trait serves them well in otherwise angsty, garage-noir cuts like “Heart-Shaped Box” (Nirvana) and “Black Hole Sun” (Soundgarden).
Fed through the Choir Fight filtration system, the songs resonate more hopefully than the originals, and with time to spare they veered into dub-jazz danger zones that evoke Miles’ In A Silent Way album-suite, part of which was also played.
Behind the hushed balladry of Jeremy Kuzniar (drums), bandleader Jamie Breiwick spit one bitchy blues lick after another through his trumpet as Steve Peplin (guitar) sustained a post-hot tub calm, granting the perfect smile to every agreement and disagreement with the soloists’ note selection.
In any other setting, middle-aged men covering those songs would be a trite attempt at personal artistry. With these guys, it’s akin to peeling the bleakness off the original to reveal a subtle, jazzy infrastructure.
“Brothers On A Hotel Bed” gave Scott Currier (keys) a chance to think out loud on his own eclectic terms, which at times bumped elbows with the stratosphere.
Bryan Mir (bass) and Aaron Gardner (sax) may not be mobile onstage, but they hold a presence of relaxed precision, nodding along in complete focus as the others guide each collective musical risk.
“Title and Registration” continued a loose theme of lost youth, this time with Peplin stepping away from accompaniment to make the song shimmer with desert-blues yearning.
That theme was not lost, though by the end of the gig, the set’s pensive atmosphere gave way to pure, off-the-cuff fun. A ballsy move to be sure, Peplin led the group in a wouldn’t-be-laugh-out-loud-funny-if-it-weren’t-so-damn-good rendition of Katy Perry’s “California Gurls,” last summer’s over-the-top-sexualized pop hit.
The reading was part satire, part fun, to which mindless catchiness (“Oh, it gets so hot/We’ll melt your popsicle”) gave way to middlebrow blues jamming. Nearly everyone appreciated the gesture, and it clearly took the edge off a long, thoughtful workday with room-filling hilarity.
Jazz and rock don’t run into each other at parties much anymore, but the definition of jazz has morphed so much that many have forgotten what it includes.
Nevertheless, if there is a group with the ability to remind young people what is (and was) beautiful about jazz once again, there is hope for a revival of sorts.