There's this concept that critics are supposed to maintain distance from their subject matter. The idea is to simultaneously enlighten the reader while keeping objectivity in mind. Sorry, this just doesn't work for me. My pencil may show no allegiances but my ear parts seem to have a mind of their own.
Case in point: Michael Blake. I've never heard of the guy. Then I read the promo material and discover that he used to be a member of The Lounge Lizards, one of my all-time favorite jazz bands. Now I'm supposed to be objective? After learning that Blake played on the stunningly beautiful (and strange) Queen Of All Ears album? Forget it!
Let's face it, I'm more evangelist than critic anyway. If a piece of music doesn't move me, it might as well not exist. On the other hand, I've been known to annoy everyone within shouting distance after undergoing a particularly resonant experience. That's exactly what happened the first time I heard the Lounge Lizards. I became an instant fan and spent the rest of their all too short career snapping up every Lizards/John Lurie-related scrap I could find. Every time I got a chance, I'd slap on the Lizards' Big Heart: Live in Tokyo for one of my friends, an expectant look of "Hey, isn't this freakin' genius?" plastered on my face.
So hey, remember that look, because it's on my face now as I attempt to describe the Michael Blake Sextet's Amor de Cosmos.
Let me just say I was not surprised by the wide range of ideas and textures employed here. Much like John Lurie's conceptions, Blake finds a way to blur the line between strict composition and pure improvisation. While Lurie's Lounge Lizards spent a lot of time deforming jazz and blues to fit a more noir-ish ideal, Blake's material tries (and succeeds) to explore the contradictions that are inherent in each component of a selection — the hopeful melody that emerges from foreboding noise or the complexities that lurk in a simple musical fragment.
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