Lucky for us, Brooklyn’s own Marco Benevento seems to enjoy inhabiting his own sound-world.  On his debut Invisible Baby (2008), it’s a place where chalky acoustic pianos collide with bursts of drum accents, a banjo rubs shoulders with globs of distorted electric bass, and using an old film projector for amplification seems right at home next to a drum kit supplemented with old car parts.  Few records of this past year have been as fun to listen to, the listener reeling in anticipation of whatever sonic curveball Benevento has up his sleeve, joined by a devastating rhythm section tighter than a steel cable. To follow-up my initial coverage of the album last week, I asked the pianist ten questions of shaky relevance.

Floodwatchmusic: What is your favorite city - anywhere in the world - to visit?

Marco Benevento: Brooklyn. Frankie’s 457 has the best meatballs in the city! Oh, to visit? Well, I like Seattle a lot – the coffee is insane.  And three of my favorite musicians, Matt Chamberlain, Skerik, and Bill Frisell, all live there.  A lot of musicians I’ve met there are super creative and involved in so much different music, live and in the studio. I guess I could say that about musicians that live in San Francisco, Portland, Boston, Chicago, or Boulder, too. There is definitely a huge spark flying around the world that I feel is hitting a bunch of musicians right now. When I hear my friends’ new music that they’re currently working on I’m just blown away at how different it was from their last, or how different it was when I first met them. Lots of musicians are reshaping the music that they are into, including musicians that they collaborate with.

FWM: Do you have a favorite chord, and if so, which one?

MB: My favorite chord is the one that happens at the right time, in the right place at the right moment, when you had nothing to do with it.

FWM: What is the most bizarre incident you’ve ever witnessed on the road?

MB: Buying a dried-out buffalo scrotum from a place called Tatanka Take Out in Tacoma, Washington.  It’s still hanging from my rearview mirror in my van.  I use it as a cell phone holder – it’s real nice!

FWM: If you could gain a superpower (strength, invisibility, etc), which one would it be and how would you use it?

MB: I think about that frequently.  I mean, why don’t we have super special secret hidden powers? I think I’d have to say the ability to fly.  I know that’s a little run-of-the-mill, but that would make everyone’s life a lot easier with gas prices and airlines charging extra for baggage.  If I can’t have the power to just fly naturally then I’d at least want a jet pack. We need to bring those back – people invented those in the late ‘50s. I can’t believe we haven’t figured out that technology yet.  If you know of anyone involved in making one, please let me know.

FWM: In the film adaptation of your life, which actor - dead or alive - would best play you?

MB: It would have to be some cartoon or furry Muppet, maybe Grover.  He and I have the same Mayan calendar symbol: the purple flying monkey.

FWM: There are ten minutes left before the end of the world.  What do you do in your last final moments?

MB: Wow. I thank Kevin Calabro for his guidance and inspiration.

FWM: What is the one corny song that you feel guilty - or not - for enjoying?

MB: I feel bad for people who don’t like Billy Joel’s “Piano Man.” I mean, come on, folks! Myself? Well, I feel guilty for liking “Piano Man.”

FWM: If you could play in any band in history, which one would it be?

MB: Miles Davis‘ [second] quintet.  It sure would be nice to hang with Tony (Williams), Wayne (Shorter), Miles, and Ron (Carter), not to mention sitting behind a piano with those cats around me would be damn surreal, and mind blowing too.

FWM: What was the first record/cassette/CD you bought as a kid and what are your reactions to it now?

MB: Slippery When Wet (1986). I also had The Big Chill (1983) soundtrack. Still dig Jovi’s rock excellence and the soul of all that Motown.

FWM: What is the biggest misconception that people have about you?

MB: I have no idea. Maybe people think that because I like the song “Piano Man,” I have no idea what I’m doing behind my instrument.  They’re right though.  I don’t know.  I just party.

“Atari” – Marco Benevento 4:12 (Invisible Baby, Hyena 2008)

Those in the Northeast can catch Benevento’s live set at the following locales this fall:

November 7 – Real Art Ways, Hartford, CT
November 8 – Drom, New York, NY
November 10 – The Flynn Center, Burlington, VT
November 11 – Vassar College, Poughkeepsie, NY
November 12 – Cafe 939, Boston, MA
November 13 – Iron Horse, Amherst, MA
November 14 – Narrows Center For The Arts, Fall River, MA
November 16 – World Café Live, Philadelphia, PA

I stopped reviewing mixtapes on this site a long time ago for two primary reasons: my Inbox is already cluttered with enough PR bullshit on a daily basis, and why compete with the best in the business?  That being said, it would be near impossible for me to let Zilla Rocca’s new disc, Bring Me the Head of Zilla Rocca (2008), slip under the radar, even if it is, technically, a ‘mixtape’ that he’s offering for free over at his site Clap Cowards.

Even if 2008 wasn’t one of the more miserable years for hip hop in recent memory, this would still be one of the best things I’ve heard all year.  Take notes, aspiring MCs, as Bring Me the Head is exactly how a mixtape should be constructed: superb beat selection, impeccable pacing, solid guest spots that are kept to a minimum, and Zilla’s pen remains as sharp as ever.  It’s a rare occurrence indeed when I’m left wanting more after 22 tracks in 67 minutes.  Any critic will have reservations about plugging their friends’ music fairly in a public setting such as this, but honestly, when the material is this good, those qualms all but dissipate entirely.  And again, it’s free, so why not grab yourself a copy?

“All Feast No Famine” – Zilla Rocca feat. ASK? & MAGr 3:18 (Bring Me the Head of Zilla Rocca, Beat Garden 2008)

I’m normally not one to get hung up on genre restrictions, but cataloging the latest from pianist Marco Benevento, a trio record titled Invisible Baby (2008), under the umbrella of “jazz” is one of the more liberating uses of the term that I’ve come across in quite a while.  Benevento made waves last year with the release of a sprawling three-disc set recorded live at Tonic, which alternated between solo and group performances in the legendary setting; everyone from Bobby Previte to Phish’s Mike Gordon showed up to participate.  To simply label Benevento as a “pianist” is a bit reductive; his arsenal includes organs, effects boxes, samplers, circuit-bent second-hand Casios, and even a Speak & Spell.  Invisible Baby finds him indulging in his toys with the same level of jubilance as a kid on Christmas morning, and would appear to reek of arrant self-indulgence were the material not so whimsical and fun: “If You Keep on Asking Me” is a drunken stagger home at three in the morning, “Ruby” is an elegant slice of cocktail jazz, “Atari” sounds exactly like its title, and “Record Book” morphs from a lullaby in 5/8 into a somber, reflective hymnal.  Drummers Matt Chamberlain (Tori Amos) and Andrew Barr (The Slip) are equally sympathetic to Benevento’s eccentricism, though the presence of bassist Reed Mathis is indispensable.  Invisible Baby is a tease at only eight tracks in 40 minutes, but the disc’s brevity only increases its replay value.  Outstanding and highly, highly recommended.

“The Real Morning Party” – Marco Benevento 4:56 (Invisible Baby, Hyena 2008)

Violinist and producer Jeff Gauthier has been working within the parameters of a fertile quintet for nearly a decade now, which he dubbed The Goatette and includes twin brothers Nels (guitar) and Alex (drums) Cline, pianist David Witham, and bassist Joel Hamilton.  House of Return (2008) is the band’s fifth outing on his own Cryptogramophone label and continues the exploratory soundscapes the group introduced on past releases like Mask (2002) and One and the Same (2006).  The seemingly bottomless wellspring of textures the collective draws from is the disc’s most alluring aspect: opener “Biko’s Blues” is a gorgeous mid-tempo number that bridges the gap between Gauthier’s folksy leanings and Witham’s cerebral musings, while the guitarist’s “Satellites and Sideburns” probes the outer reaches of the galaxy under a tense atmosphere, decorated by some tasteful electronics.  The writing, split between the members and former bassist Eric von Essen (who passed away in ’97), is actually the record’s only flaw, with some of the tunes floating along aimlessly in desperate need of a melody (Alex’s tone poem “Dizang” long overstays its welcome), but the group surmounts any compositional shortcomings by continually massaging and reshaping its aural environment.  Hamilton, in particular, is a delight to follow.  A strong effort, if a bit predictable at this juncture in the quintet’s existence.

“Friends of the Animals” – The Jeff Gauthier Goatette 7:20 (House of Return, Cryptogramophone 2008)

Who the hell does Aaron Parks think he is?  The young Seattle native just signed to Blue Note, recently wrapped up tours with Terence Blanchard and guitarist Kurt Rosenwinkel, and released last month what many are already heralding as Jazz Album of the Year with Invisible Cinema (2008).  Not a bad start for a 24-year-old.  On the surface, Invisible Cinema has no right to be as good as it is: Parks cites ’stock’ contemporary influences like Radiohead and Death Cab for Cutie alongside McCoy Tyner, describes his music as “cinematic,” and has a tendency toward eye-rolling Keith Jarrett-like song titles (“Harvesting Dance,” “Peaceful Warrior”).  Mere superficialities that are at once forgotten when confronted with the ten selections here, all penned by the leader, who is joined by guitarist Mike Moreno, bassist Matt Penman, and drummer Eric Harland in a series of ‘structured improv’ settings more in line with ‘70s prog-rock than the run-of-the-mill head/solo routines.  The first three cuts alone (“Travelers,” “Peaceful Warrior,” and “Nemesis”) are crammed with slick compositional devices and turnarounds, richly textured chords, head-spinning pulse juxtapositions (the 5/8 and 6/8 collision that closes “Travelers” is remarkable), and some of the finest group interplay I’ve heard in quite some time, especially between Parks and the acutely-intuitive Harland.  The results are elegant yet adventurous, intelligent yet unstuffy – and it doesn’t hurt that Parks’ touch is sublime (only the tedious Masada rip “Harvesting Dance” falls flat).  It would have been all too easy for Parks to play it safe on his first major label showcase – some standards here, a few obligatory Herbie nods there – but the grace and maturity he pulls off on Invisible Cinema has me eagerly anticipating his next move.

“Travelers” – Aaron Parks 5:35 (Invisible Cinema, Blue Note 2008)

Last month Chicago’s Mike Reed released two albums on the 482 Music label, and both have been receiving equal amounts of praise and stereo time over the past few weeks; I’m have trouble deciding between Proliferation (2008) and The Speed of Change (2008) as far as a favorite goes.  Reed has achieved man-about-town status at this point in his vocation, manning the kit for everyone from Rob Mazurek to Ken Vandermark, all the while staying busy with his curatorial duties of the annual Chicago Jazz and Pitchfork Music festivals. The Speed of Change is Reed’s second album in as many years with his Loose Assembly quintet, which includes Greg Ward on various reeds, bassist Josh Abrams, Tomeka Reid on cello, and vibraphonist Jason Adazsiewicz, supplemented by vocalist and flutist Nicole Mitchell on two numbers.  Reed leads the group through a set of collective compositions that range from meditative tone poems to sinuous post-bop, even ripping through a cover of Max Roach’s “Garvey’s Ghost” for shits. Adasiewicz may be the most subdued here but is crucial to the formula, providing splashes of color where necessary, which contrast wonderfully with Reed’s pensive yet surprisingly kinetic accents. A record whose rewards are bountiful even some dozen listens into it; this is a strong contender for jazz platter of the year.  (Expect coverage of the equally stellar Proliferation soon.)

“Soul Stirrer” – Mike Reed’s Loose Assembly 6:40 (The Speed of Change, 482 Music 2008)

Brooklyn resident Todd Sickafoose, perhaps better known as Ani DiFranco’s bassist, released his third solo jaunt this past June titled Tiny Resistors (2008), easily his most adventurous outing to date.  It’s one of the most fascinating and meticulously arranged records I’ve heard all year, hampered only by its extended running time (at a bloated 68 minutes).  Here Sickafoose works within a uniquely diverse ensemble that would implode in the hands of most leaders: four brass players, two guitars, and two drummers, with guests DiFranco and Andrew Bird on fiddle.  The result is a kind of exploratory, noir-ish mood music that at times seems akin to a lost soundtrack from a Jim Jarmusch flick, ranging from slinky carnival-esque dirges (“Future Flora”) to surrealistic piano laments (“Pianos of the 9th Ward”).  The fluidity of Sickafoose’s bass playing is the connective tissue throughout, with a refreshing emphasis on unfettered, organic playing over glitzy electronics and studio wizardry (the leader produced and mixed the record).  Tiny Resistors is probably not going to be everyone’s cup of Joe, but its eclectic and imaginative spirit will have little difficulty garnering its share of supporters.

“Future Flora” – Todd Sickafoose 6:27 (Tiny Resistors, Cryptogramophone 2008)

Songwriter and producer Norman Whitfield was the godfather of psychedelic soul.

Not only was he a composer of the highest order, but he pushed the boundaries of pop music like no other Soul producer at the time, on Barry Gordy’s payroll or otherwise.  Whitfield could expand a simple handful of notes on the bass guitar into a panoramic, multilayered symphony of sound.

“You Make Your Own Heaven and Hell Right Here on Earth” – Undisputed Truth 6:59 (Face to Face with the Truth, Gordy 1972)

If you find yourself with seven minutes to spare today, grab a pair of headphones and treat yourself to the Undisputed Truth’s 1971 single “You Make Your Own Heaven and Hell Right Here on Earth.”  The tingling sensation you’ll feel along your spine can be wholly attributed to this man.

Rest in peace, Norman.

Whenever I find myself in a particularly dreary environment – whether it’s some excruciating work-related function for my wife’s job or a social gathering where I do nothing but exchange pleasantries with complete strangers – my first impulse is to locate an individual who might have a few intelligent thoughts about music, then adhere to them to ease the passing of the evening.  For some men it’s professional sports, for others it’s grills or power tools, but me – and I realize that this may come as a shock to some of you – I can spend literally hours upon hours discussing music.  I once spent six hours at an exceptionally lame party discussing the merits of Roni Size’s New Forms (1997) with an equally enthusiastic gentleman, eventually sinking to a competition of recreating breakbeat patterns with our mouths after a few too many drinks.  I stayed up until 8:00 AM after a barbeque with a few co-workers digressing upon how brilliant Common’s pre-Like Water for Chocolate (2000) lyricism used to be.  I’ve participated in marathon debates on everything from Debussy to death metal without the slightest inkling of someone’s first name hours into the conversation.  My poor wife has nothing but chagrin as she scouts the premises frantically to introduce me to someone, all the while I’m picking some random dude’s brain about Eastern European folk music.

Yet occasionally there will be times when, just as a discussion has eased into a comfortable rhythm with a healthy exchange of opinions, someone will suddenly spout something so absurd, so ignorant, so vehemently against everything I believe in that every statement thereafter becomes completely devoid of interest or reason.  My brain immediately shuts down and I find myself looking for an escape route, politely at first, then growing desperate by the minute until I’m sweating uncontrollably and I can’t possibly fathom hearing another word this person says.  Far be it for me to shit on someone because of one measly opinion that means very little in the grand scheme of things, but when someone spouts the film-buff equivalent of, “Godfather III (1990) was the best of the trilogy,” what are you gonna do, pleasantly nod your head and continue to sip your drink?  The following are four actual music conversation gaffs that I’ve experienced over the years that have only resulted in heartbreak at the promise of something more than a shallow dialogue of likes-versus-dislikes.

“I still think The Predator is the best work Ice Cube’s ever done.”

Someone actually said this, without a trace of humor or irony.  I was at a wedding reception a few years ago and found myself in the familiar “hip hop ain’t what it used to be” exchange with another reveler.  I was becoming more and more impressed with dude’s recollections of when Poor Righteous Teachers’ Holy Intellect (1990) dropped and how floored he was by the production on Son of Bazerk’s Bazerk Bazerk Bazerk (1991) when suddenly this steaming pile of insight dropped from his jaws.  I began to feel dizzy as I pondered the Jedi-like mental stamina it would take for me to wrap my head around a statement this asinine.  Sure, I mean, in hindsight The Predator (1992) holds up pretty well, but, come on – ever hear of a little record titled AmeriKKKa’s Most Wanted (1990)?  To say nothing of one of the ten (arguably) most important statements in the entire canon, the peerless Death Certificate (1991)?  Any hope of a teasing “Ha! Gotcha!” became fleeting as he began decrying The Bomb Squad’s “dated production” on Cube’s debut and blaspheming about Sir Jinx’s “messy funk samples” on his shining hour.  Plus, and I didn’t realize this until later, but “ever done” carries the implication that Cube is still producing music of any sort of relevancy; wouldn’t “ever did” be more appropriate?  I bowed out of the conversation respectfully and returned to my assigned table to pick at the leftover dessert plates as I waited for the evening to end.

“Wicked” – Ice Cube 3:55 (The Predator, Priority 1992)

“J Dilla was so overrated.” b/w “All white people love J Dilla.”

I’ve stated before that I prefer Dilla’s earlier work over his post-millennium output (give or take a year), but that’s mostly because of the countless number of lesser producers who’ve bitten his signature off-syncopated shuffle and beat patterns in their drum tracks.  I can’t add anything to Dilla’s legacy that hasn’t been better articulated elsewhere, and I don’t want to get into the odd and obsessive file-sharing exhumation of his work since his passing.  But to dismiss him as “overrated” and nothing more is plain ignorant.  And (in this case) how can you claim Premier as your favorite producer ever without giving a shred of acknowledgement to Dilla?  And what the hell does “all white people love Dilla” mean?  These two back-to-back gaffs essentially halted what had up until then been an exhaustive discussion of the hip hop producer lexicon between myself and a friend, and neither of us has spoken of it since; it’s not exactly half-in-the-bag material that begins with, “Dude!  Remember that time when you said…”  Since then our hip hop-related conversations have been as dull as Q-Tip’s post-Tribe career.  A shame, really.  Speaking of Tribe…

“Climax (Instrumental)” – Slum Village 3:32 (Fantastic, Vol. 2, Goodvibe 2000)

“See, this is why Eminem is the greatest rapper of all time.”

It was a late afternoon in May as a group of my friends and I congregated around a picnic table, a few of us keeping eyes on the grill, sipping beers and enjoying the first warm breeze in eight months.  I was engaged in a lively track-by-track discussion of Midnight Marauders (1993) with a guy I didn’t know that well, as he was the new boyfriend of a friend of mine.  So far he had a thumbs-up approval from me, praising the snare hits and six-bar loops of the record, and dropping verse excerpts (both Tip and Phife’s) when necessary.  I must have slipped into a brief reverie for a moment, because the next thing I heard was something along the lines of Eminem and the word “greatest” without the slightest inkling of a segue.  I stared at him like he was a blathering, incomprehensible idiot as the guy gushed over Marshall Mathers like a proud parent whose kid just made the honor roll (this was 2003, if I recall correctly).  Look, I’m not trying to hate on some washed-up, near-forgotten white rapper who made the most out of his fifteen minutes, and I certainly won’t knock anyone who keeps a few of his discs on their shelf.  But the G.O.A.T., for Christ’s sake?  Besides, weren’t we just talking about Midnight Marauders here?  I stood up, said something along the lines of, “I can’t participate in this conversation anymore,” and broke the hell out like chickenpox.  A month later she dumped his ass.  Everything in its right place, as the saying goes.

“Doe or Die is better than Illmatic.”

I love it when folks get a hankering to take Illmatic (1994) down a peg or two on the totem pole of Hip Hop Classics (I see you Brandon and Robbie) – not because I necessarily think it’s a weak or overrated album, but because Illmatic’s ego could always use a little deflation now and then.  Back in college I was having a chat with a fellow classmate before class when he dropped the above gem on me, and the reason the conversation ended wasn’t attributed to me throwing my arms up in defeat, but rather that I had to actually pause and think about his declaration.  AZ’s Doe or Die (1995) is the wild card of mid-‘90s NYC crime rap, a record I’ve always strongly defended and championed whenever the opportunity presented itself. While I was stunned in intense consideration, he shot me a smug look of satisfaction like, “Made you think, huh?”  By the time I could retort, class had already started, so I whispered back to him, “Doe or Die falls apart toward the end.”  Without a moment’s hesitation he responded, “So does Illmatic.”  Damn! Ultimately, my opinion of Illmatic hasn’t swayed, but I’ll graciously anoint props to anyone who genuinely believes that it stands in Doe or Die’s superior shadow.

“Ho Happy Jackie” – AZ 3:34 (Doe or Die, EMI 1995)