Ron Anderson’s
PAK
Secret Curve
(Tzadik)
Ron
Anderson is the best kind of
madman. There’s just no
other way to say it.
With Secret Curve,
the Brooklyn musician’s
third outing with the avant-jazz-rock
trio PAK,
Anderson has willed into
being something so
mind-bending, frenetic, and
complex—but tight and
composed—that it mocks
attempts to fit it into
genre boundaries or even
find points of reference to
map its trajectories. This
is a record that even
normally cautious
aficionados might use the
word “masterpiece” to
describe.
Anderson defines his group’s
modus operandi from the very
first track, an “Overture”
that runs 68 seconds but
seems to contain a different
time signature for every
exhalation. There’s more
than a nod to the masterful
John Zorn and Naked City in
the way the group races
through measures at full
speed and then stops at a
micro-moment’s notice. But
there’s more to the disc
than that. Anderson’s color
palette borrows from the
sonic pastiche of Mr. Bungle
and the punk-inspired
angularity of the Minutemen,
while contemporaries like
Elliott Sharp and jazz
staples like Ornette Coleman
also find a place in the
mix. Let’s avoid “blender”
analogies altogether and
just say it sounds like an
unnatural tryst between
swing and math rock. But a
friend of mine might have
put it best: “This is the
music Thelonious Monk would
be making if he were alive
today.”
Unlike their earlier
Motel
CD,
Secret Curve
is not an adventure
primarily for rock
instruments or rock
phrasings. While the
rhythmic precision of
Anderson, who plays bass,
and drummer Keith Abrams
surely grab for the
spotlight, this is a fully
realized record and one with
many moving parts—including
often-brilliant
contributions on trumpet,
piano, French horn, violin,
electronics, and tenor and
bass saxophones. Yes, there
is no guitar. And yet,
often, Secret Curve
can make big rock records
with big rock sounds seem
flaccid by comparison.
Take the opening of
“Caffeine Static
Rendezvous,” in which bass,
drums, piano, and keyboard
pound out furious staccato
notes before breaking into
extended prog-rock musings
that would make the members
of King Crimson or
Cheer-Accident blush.
Anderson and crew follow
these bridges with boozy
late-night jazz, horns
blaring their innuendos as
Anthony Coleman slurs out
piano measures over densely
orchestrated rhythms.
But Anderson is best when he
has speed and precision on
his side. The horns at the
beginning of the
10-minute-long “Caro-Kann”
bleat in ecstasy over
percussion that’s so
ridiculously precise it’s
impossible to tap your feet
to it. Near the two-minute
mark, the group boils things
down and the proceedings
border on some mutant form
of ska. Five minutes in,
we’re back into
PAK’s
frenetic serenade,
Anderson’s fingers sprinting
across the fretboard as
Abrams jolts from snare
rolls to pounding toms to
ride cymbals to off-time
kick drums and then right
back around.
The disc’s title track, a
jaw-dropping journey planted
near the record’s center, is
PAK
at its most frenetic.
Though the opening moments
briefly suggest a sense of
melancholy, that doesn’t
last long. Within seconds,
we’re back into the fray as
PAK
lurches from
hyper-pressurized jazz-rock
to intricate post-prog/punk,
each rejiggered time
signature as much a thrill
as the one that came before
it. Three quarters of the
way through the tune,
there’s a breakdown of
electronics and bass that
might challenge many
listeners’ notions of just
how precise a band can sound
in the studio without some
serious computer editing.
But they pull it off without
fail and simply move on to
the next exploration.
This record is so good you
could fill pages just trying
to describe the passages of
its eleven instrumentals.
Listen to “E4 Or D4?,” where
PAK’s
conventional band sound is
sliced and scissored and
taped back together in the
mix, and the punky
introduction to “Trebuchet,”
which would be great for
moshing if not for the odd
juxtaposition of punk
elements with sax and piano.
Consider the fluid bass
measures of “Let Me Tell You
Something” and the way they
act as glue as the horns
wail and the drums skitter
and scatter across the
landscape. Or there’s the
punchy bass of “No Future.”
Or “Mama’s Little
Anarchist,” which is worth
the price of admission for
the title alone. There’s
just not a dud on the disc.
The “industry” that feeds on
popular music can make a big
stink about profanity to
protect innocent ears. But
Anderson’s new record is the
opposite of profane,
bordering on a kind of sonic
transcendence, though it’s
not a record for everyone..
This is challenging music
and, maybe even more so, the
kind of music that either
inspires other musicians or
convinces them they’re not
worth their salt. In any
case, I suggest
PAK
start labeling their
work, if only to keep away
the faint of heart. This is
passionate music played
passionately, and someone
needs to prepare the world
for what’s inside.