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Fred
Anderson, Kidd Jordan & Friends
Chicago IL, 2 September 2000
by Derek Taylor
September 2000
 For followers of free jazz in the Midwest Chicago is an obvious Mecca
of sounds. On any given weekend there's certain to be something happening
in the city at one of the handful of venues that make the music their
regular stock and trade. The Empty Bottle, Hot House, Green Mill,
are all regular watering holes for fans of adventurous and uncompromising
sounds. But if a hierarchy were ever imposed on the city's venues
the Velvet Lounge, situated on Chicago's near South Side, would easily
rank at the top. Once you set foot inside the place, take a seat at
the bar or a table, and the music from the players clustered atop
the plyboard-constructed stage starts, the reasons behind its esteem
pour down like a cool inviting rain. It's a museum for the music,
but not in the traditional musty, dusty definition of that word. Fred
Anderson's joint is a living, breathing repository—one that
makes and documents history on a nightly and continuous basis. Nearly
every evening of the week there's something happening there—whether
it's a local group with a regular weekly gig or another from out of
town just passing through, something about the place inspires musicians
to turn out their finest and most unfettered work. What's more, the
majority of it is recorded and archived by Fred's right-hand soundman
Clarence Bright.
 The tapes
were definitely rolling on this night for the first of two Chicago
Jazz Festival 'after sets' reconvening Fred and his old New Orleans
chum Kidd Jordan on stage with friends. Jordan has made the yearly
trip a tradition and my experiences at last year's meeting made this
year's a must-hear. Calling such an event a Jazz Festival 'after set'
is something of a misnomer in that by and large the most exciting
and memorable events always seem to transpire after the facilities
over at Grant Park have closed up shop for the night. This night was
no different and once bassist Darius Savage and drummer Vincent Davis
took the stage at a little past 9:30 we all settled in for the main
event.
After
a brief bass/drums preface that had both Davis and Savage breaking
a light sweat Kidd stepped up on stage and over a forceful rhythmic
vamp let fly with stream of keening, frayed lines. In a solo that
continued to gain both steam and volume, Kidd unleashed a torrent
of overblown shouts from his tenor—skipping across the altissimo
register and leaving the audience agape when his reed finally parted
from his mouth. A quick rhythmic break and Fred joined his friend
on stage, fastening his tenor to his torso harness, hunching down
into his signature crouch and answering with a deep, almost baritone
resonance. Working a supple thematic strand deep into the ears of
the audience, Fred swabbed out any and all wax—leaving our eager
canals cleansed and prepped to receive the melodic milk to follow.
Paving the way further, Savage and Davis generated a furious pace
tugging out a choppy rhythmic sea over which Fred vaulted with ropy
foghorn blasts. After another gorgeously conceived solo Fred stepped
back, laying out with Davis and allowing Savage time alone with his
strings. Mixing sparsely placed plucks with double-timed strums Savage's
solo was a little on the simplistic side, but with Davis' cymbal punctuations
his statement still managed to support considerable weight.
 Fred soon
returned blowing in balladic mode over a shuffling syncopated beat
before Kidd joined him and the two engaged in the first of several
duets. Twining upper register tones with juxtaposed high and low streams,
the pair was like a post-modern incarnation of Ammons and Stitt. After
an incredibly sustained exchange Fred finally dropped out leaving
Kidd again with the rhythm before Douglas Ewart, who had been waiting
in the wings stepped up and moved to the front on soprano. Taking
a protracted solo heavily steeped in multiphonics, but somewhat lacking
in terms of melodic range Ewart mimicked a snake charmer trying to
lull his serpent with a wall of notes. Fred eventually returned blowing
throaty counterpoint underneath and signaling a shift for a solo from
Davis. The drummer's exposition was so precise in execution and stentorian
in volume that the eventual reappearance of the ensemble almost seemed
premature. Fred, Kidd and Ewart—blowing from his chair stage-side—took
the set out to unanimous and clamorous applause. The din was so loud
that ears were ringing by its close.
Set
two opened with Tatsu Aoki taking over bass duties and AACM legend
Ajaramu setting up a hasty shop behind the drum kit. Working over
a thickly syncopated funk beat Kidd and Fred entered together, turning
the base metals of their horns into vessels of pure opaline magic.
Arthur Taylor, an AACM member I'm unfamiliar with, took the stage
soon after a lengthy exchange from Fred and Kidd, blowing a long,
if somewhat restrained solo on alto. Nipping at the heels of the
horns, Aoki and Ajaramu moved to the fore hammering out an ululating
rhythmic vamp that eventually took center stage as the three front
men dropped out. Grin inducing solos from Kidd and Fred followed,
flanked closely by Ajaramu. This latter exchange worked the audience
into fervor as Fred dug in under a barrage of benevolent drumfire.
Ajaramu's limbs blanketed his kit creating a continuous motion of
rhythms as Fred dug deep into the baritone range of his horn. Suddenly
Kidd and Taylor joined in rising to a locomotive speed before a final
coda by Fred took the piece out in a whisper.
 The second
piece opened with Ewart solo and later in trio with Aoki and Davis,
Ajaramu having had his say and retiring to a seat stage side. Twittering
overtones and high harmonics spewed from Ewart's horn and in a prismatic
flash Fred and Kidd resumed their stations, blowing again at fever
pitch. A lengthy and absorbing drum solo by Davis followed before
the horn men magnetized again into a three-pronged harmony of blast
furnace heat. Kidd stepped forward after for a solo after several
minutes, ascending into an ear-melting dirge as Fred shouted "Go,
Go, Go"—goading his friend on to further heights. Kidd was so
possessed that the words fell on deaf ears and Fred simply smiled.
Building to a fever pitch, the former eventually had to pull his mouthpiece
from his lips, breathing a deep and winded sigh before Fred swooped
in beneath him for a final coda with Aoki and the inevitable close.
As the last note drifted from the bell of Fred's horn the audience
erupted in a unified bedlam of applause, whistles and roars. Wiping
the sweat from his mahogany brow Fred reintroduced the players and
excused himself for a short break promising yet a third set! Glancing
up at the plastic Coors clock on the wall I noticed the time—ten
till one! Over three hours had elapsed and it was time for me to cut
out to meet a friend, so I regrettably missed the finale. But exiting
the Velvet into the warm summer night air, I went away with both my
ears and my soul throbbing with a deep and lasting satisfaction.
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