Venue:
Saint-Chaptes, France
Date: 17/10/2015
This was a bit of a find, and a bit of a revelation for a confirmed jazzophobe like me. A village hall in rural France (when we arrived, the road crew were taking on the locals in what appeared to be a life-or-death game of petanque) is an unlikely place for a jazz epiphany. But first, a trestle table in the car park offering dinner options; cheap red in a plastic cup at 1 Euro a throw, and a hot dog. Well, this being France it was saucisson de canard en baguette, but you can’t have everything.
My expectation of some ancient Gallic ivorie-plonquer shrugging his way through La Vie en Rose was blown away by the discovery that 28-year-old Kauflin is American, a well-respected protégé of Quincy Jones, and the subject of last year’s documentary Keep On Keeping On, about his friendship with the legendary trumpeter Clark Terry. How his trio ended up here among the Langedoc vines I don’t know, but the event promoter was the most Jazz person I’ve ever met. Imagine being a super-cool laid-back daddy-o beatnik hepcat, and being French as well. That’s how Jazz he was.
I’ve always been a bit suspicious of virtuosity, on the grounds that just because you can play all those notes doesn’t mean you have to. Kauflin plays piano so apparently effortlessly that you can’t see the work that must go into it. Helpfully for a jazz ingrate like me, he tends to start with a simple theme and slowly extrapolate, so the tune stays in your head even when there’s no trace of it in the improvisation. His piece Thank You Lord grows from a straight gospel melody into something that’s actually deeply affecting. Justin’s golden crucifix dazzles the audience via the Steinway’s dark sheen, so he would probably say it’s the holy spirit that’s moving me close to tears through his flowing fingers; I’d say the lad’s done enough miles to take the credit for his own brilliance. Did I mention he’s blind, too?
I’m not a total convert by any means. Jazz drumming is still a god-awful fiddly clatter to these ears, in this case close to assault on batterie, and no one should have to listen to four bass solos in a lifetime, let alone the same evening. But the three guys on stage seemed to be having a whale of a time, even playing to 200 in a drafty salle des fêtes, and against all expectations I did too. Jazz, eh? Who’d have thought?
The audience:
People who like jazz, I suppose. I don’t, but forced prolonged exposure to a genre I’ve instinctively shied away from has at least made me slightly less sniffy about it. I may have to investigate further.
It made me think..
I forgive rock drummers for everything I’ve ever said about them.
A wonderfully enjoyable review. That the venue was so unexpected was the moutarde on the saucisson for me.
I look forward to listening to Justin on Spotify but I do think their profile photo of him is a bit OTT.
It shows him and his guide dog.
Great review. Bought a beret yet?
I’d recommend a couple of Thelonius Monk albums, taken once a week. Monk’s Music, and Brilliant Corners. They’re jazz, because they’re nothing else. They’re also sly, funny, tuneful (Monk wrote greate tunes) and dry as a martini. If you “dig” those, “man” (as we Downbeat types put it), get stuck into Miles. That’s basically life’s greatest challenge, and most worthwhile venture. There’s Miles, and there’s everything else.
I have a Thelonious Sphere Monk t-shirt, shows how hip I am.
The great thing about Monk (one of the many) is that all his tunes are full of phrases that turn into earworms that you can never quite get hold of enough to be able to whistle.
… and he plays fewer notes than Chico Marx,