Customer Reviews

Hot Swing

5 star:		(4)
4 star:		(1)
3 star:		(0)
2 star:		(1)
1 star:		(0)

 

 

Not that there was ever any question, but Mark O'Connor can play the violin like few people in the world. I have been a fan of his "Americana" work for years, but I had never ventured into his jazz experiments. Well, thank god I finally did. This album is an absolute joy from start to finish. O'Connor is at the top of his game, effortlessly creating both blisteringly fast, almost fiddle-stlye runs and gorgeous, lyrical ballad work. I was not familiar with either of the men who back him on this album, but I intend to get familiar with them in the very near future, as both of them display a sensibility that is rarely matched in today's jazz world. There's a lot of attention on this album to the tradition of Django Reinhardt and Stephane Grappelli, but it never feels dated or even like these artists are trying to directly emulate Reinhardt or Grappelli. It's more of a celebration of that tradition and the artists never let themselves be confined by it. All in all, it's one of the few albums out there that is as fun as it is impressive. It's a blast!

We sat 3 rows back, dead center at Mahaffey Theater and witnessed Mark, John and Frank pay grand tribute to Stephan Grapelli. Mark was cookin', Frank made the Selmer Mcaferri "Django" guitar sing like a bird, Jon Burr laid down hot and deep bass rhythms. At intermission, we looked at each other and said, "wow. What was that!" This CD is like being there, 3 rows back. If you are an O'Connor fan, Vignola fan or just like the Grapelli style of swing... this CD is mandatory.

This was a fabulous concert and this CD follows suit. This group justed cooked. The compositions by Mark O'Connor showed what a fine composer he is, and the work of Frank Vignola thoroughly supports his stature as one of the finest contemporary guitarists around.

I was feeling lousy, physically, when I first played this disc. It was like a potent tonic. Listen too, it's great medicine.

Mark O'Connor headlined the Sunday night Strawberry Music Festival fall of 2001 and performed a very similar concert to what is captured on this disc, a tribute to the late Stephane Grappelli. It was a memorable performance and may have seemed original and inspired to listeners getting their introduction to swing jazz. Not that many years ago, however, I was fortunate to hear Stephane Grappelli and Bucky Pizzarelli play outside at Villa Montalvo. There's a huge difference between the young O'Connor and the (now deceased) old Grappelli. I suspect those with a recording or two of Stephane's will feel slightly disappointed with this. Perhaps it's the lack of O'Connor's use of the high harmonic that was a trademark of Stephane's style, or maybe it's my judgement that this album is trying to be someone else's, but there's something that misses. However, if you don't make the comparison, the album sounds pretty good, almost too clean for a live recording.

What a fantastic album. John's, Mark's, and Frank's playing is hot and flawless. Thoroughly enjoyable.

In his introduction to Paul Paviot's documentary on Django Reinhardt, Jean Cocteau sighed "Django...celui guitar avec une voix humane!" Cocteau was referring to what all great music, and also all great art, does. It knocks at or even breaks down the doors of the non-verbal, articulating a desire or reality that was hitherto either nebulous or latent in our consciousness.
But what Cocteau neglected to mention was that the violin of Stephane Grappelli had a voice as well. Urbane, witty, and always in control, Grappelli was the perfect counterbalance to the untamed virtuosity of Django's guitar, whether accompanying him on violin or piano.
It is these voices that are sorrowfully absent in "Hot Swing", and what, in my opinion, ultimately causes the album to fail. There is no doubting O'Connor's, Burr's, and Vignola's technical mastery of their repsective instruments. Every piece is executed with a masterful precision as solos lead in and fade out seamlessly one into the other. And yet, as I listened I got the impression not of a swing hall, heavy with listeners and the almost tangible bop of the jazz, but of a white-walled laboratory. The music has no anima, it seems perfunctorily mechanical, as though performed by well-oiled machines, not by men attempting symbolic expression.
While at first I thought that maybe I had become a victim of my own fancy, each additional listen evokes the same pair of adjectives: clinical and sterile.
It should be said that I do seem to be in the minority here, as everyone, jazz cognescenti and casual listeners alike, really seems to dig this one. But for those who are interested but unsure, my advice would be to try Django and Stephane, or return to them if you've sampled them already. Though long gone, they at least have something to say.