Story and Photos By Andy Argyrakis
Jazz may be the most common category the Pat Metheny
Group's been placed in over the last three decades,
but a mere browsing over one of its many works and
that label is not always the most accurate. Sure, the
material may be instrumentally based and sway towards
the contemporary side of that genre, but there's
always been an unconventional blend of pop, rock,
soul, blues and funk- a feat that demonstrates each
player's versatility while consistently confusing
critics all across the globe. To further back up this
style-hopping notion, Metheny and company can boast
sixteen Grammy Awards since 1977, nine of which have
been in separate categories (breaking the record for
multi-format wins).
As with an album in the troupe's vast catalogue, a
relatively lengthy incubation period is needed,
followed by some serious preparation in order to
launch a tour. The latest batch of material The Way Up
has been brewing since 2003 and found its way to the
brand new label home Nonesuch (also territory shared
with Wilco and Youssou N'Dour). But unlike any record
throughout its tenure, the work is one continuous opus
broken up into four decidedly distinct parts with
varying degrees of wordless tension, mounting pressure
points and periods of restful release. The project
runs 68:10 to be exact taking a series of twists and
turns, which at its height coasts on unpredictable
improvisation, and at its lowest, is merely elevator
worthy background music.
Close followers of the organization had the chance to
judge for themselves as the new tour's bulk revolves
around this album in its entirety. The moderately
filled Chicago Theatre crowd was met with the
explosive sounds of the ambiguous titled "Opening,"
the first of four selections pretentiously titled as
vaguely with mere number identification. Despite the
unadventurous misnomer, the suite stretched a little
over five minutes to incorporate a trippy be-bop
backdrop, characterized by Methany's signature riffs,
the support of longstanding pianist Lyle Mays and
bassist Steve Rodby, plus the 2002 additions of
Mexican drummer Antonio Sanchez and Vietnamese
born/Seattle bred trumpet player/vocalist Cuong Vu.
Also along for the ride was Swiss/American harmonica
virtuoso Gregoire Maret, whose role was limited in the
somewhat brief beginning, but would later be utilized
in a series of complicated solos.
"Part One" was much more expansive in its
meanderings, lasting well beyond the twenty minute
mark and crossing numerous territories in the
meantime. However, in contrast to the robust
introduction, this segment started in the slow tempo,
snore worthy route. The vibe steered away from PMG's
experimental base, appearing almost new agey for the
first several minutes before picking up the pace with
more lively splashes of guitar strums and free form
playing (akin to what could be found of more recent
Medeski, Martin and Wood offerings). Vu's trumpet
puffs provided additional revitalization throughout
the second half up though the jammy closing moments
before returning to the same supper club level
sogginess of "Part Two."
That selection launched with a minute's worth of
tedious piano tinkling before expounding with the low
bred bass wallops and brisk cymbal crashes that
continued to mount with intensity. Somewhere around
the ten-minute mark, the anticipation reached a
fever's pitch and PMG was able to keep the crowd in
wonder throughout the piece's duration, which again
lasted past the twenty-minute mark. But then right as
the composition reached its climatic conclusion, "Part
Three" dropped the energy level down several notches
in comparison and seemed loungy and languid. Luckily,
the rebound came once again via a keyboard/brass duel,
which was eventually resolved with Metheny's
characteristic finger picking. The fifteen minute
expression simmered back down again for a reflective
conclusion, returning to the discharge mechanism first
alluded to in "Opening" and earning an abounding
applause in the process.
Though Metheny joked that would be it for the night,
the Group transitioned into several signature
selections from its past to provide a bit more of what
some probably paid to see. Still, even with that
period of flashbacks, the evening's real assessment
must lie in the execution of The Way Up, which
skeptics have deemed as ostentatious and lovers
labeled as ambitious. The objective answer after
seeing the concert is a straight split down the
middle, landing at times like pompous racket (or nap
time depending on the movement) and painstakingly
detailed, reiterating the precise talent possessed by
every individual within Metheny's operation.
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