
Keith Tipppet, Paul Dunmall, Paul Rogers, Mark Sanders and Miles Levin (Picture: Russ Escritt)
A Celebration of the Life and Music of Tony Levin
mac, Birmingham UK
18-06-2011
The evening was divided into two: a first half would be “straight” jazz, with established rhythms, and melodic and harmonic elements set beforehand, upon which the players had a chance to improvise, and it would feature some of the musicians Tony had played with earlier on in his career; a second half would be of “free” music, where the initial canvas is blank, and the players interact to create a fully improvised piece, and would feature his closest fellow musicians of more recent times.
As Tony Dudley-Evans, of organisers Birmingham Jazz, observed: Tony Levin, who died in February, operated happily in both worlds, but in a sense there was a false dichotomy here, because Tony wouldn’t have separated them in his own mind. He brought some freedom to the “straight” stuff and some structure to the “free”. Tony Levin played as all the great jazz players do – he played as himself.
The first half was full of fine, dedicated jazz from John Taylor on piano, Arnie Somogyi on bass and Clark Tracey on drums with a series of saxophonists, Ray Warleigh, Jean Toussaint and Stan Sulzmann, first individually and then together.
Warleigh got the horns off to a slightly nervous start, perhaps self-conscious in the circumstances, but he soon warmed up. Toussaint treated the large audience to a bluesy kind of Traneism, and raised the temperature further, while Taylor added the sparks in a terrific, game-changing solo on Kenny Wheeler’s Jigsaw. A multi-horned Mood Indigo felt slightly incongruous, but served to add a moment of quiet reflection, and the set ended strongly with For Chris, a tune John Taylor had written for a band back in 1969/70, of which Tony Levin had been a part. Sulzmann’s solo was a thing of spiralling, gleaming brilliance.
It was a rewarding set from some fine players, but it also felt like history. These were were the fond memories.
The real loss to music, the real impact of Tony Levin’s death, what it means right now, was made viscerally manifest in the second half.
Behind one drum kit was Tony’s son, Miles, behind another was his friend Mark Sanders, and on piano, bass and saxophone were Keith Tippett, Paul Rogers and Paul Dunmall, the surviving three-quarters of Mujician. These three had played with Tony for the last 23 years, had interacted with him, had been fired up by him, had fed back ideas in turn. They probably knew Tony nearly as well as he knew himself.
The septet poured its all into this set. There were moments of great delicacy, of Tippett tapping the bells attached to the piano, of Sanders and Levin glancing their sticks off the cymbals; and there were moments of almost terrifying ferocity, with the two drummers churning up a hurricane and Dunmall, Tippett and Rogers piling on the agitation. They dug deep and they dug hard.
This really felt like an outpouring by the bereaved, working through the full gamut of those natural emotions from denial, anger and depression to acceptance. But it was also the kind of celebration that Tony Levin would have loved: wide-ranging, bold, sometimes very dark and dangerous, but also cathartic and ultimately life-affirming.