The leathery face is scarred and wrinkled, the thin strands of hair glistening white. Directly below, you see the curious landscaping of an eighteenth-century French jardin and, nearby, the Moliere Theater.Ī hand clutches your sleeve, and you turn suddenly, irritably, and find yourself face to face with an old man. The twin towers of a facsimile of the Rheims Cathedral rise above the horizon. They watch eagerly, delighted to see in person what millions are watching on visiscope.īeyond the theater, the tree-lined Frank Lloyd Wright Boulevard curves into the distance, past the Dante Monument and the Michelangelo Institute. Sunlight plays on their brightly-colored clothing. Off to the left, on the slope of a hill, you see the tense spectators who crowd the Grecian Theater for Euripides. You are standing in the observation gallery of the towering Bach Monument. It is awesome, it is overpowering, it is-everything.Īnd though few of its visitors know about this, or care, it is also haunted. The Center is colossal, spectacular and magnificent. It is a monumental summary of man's cultural heritage, and like a phoenix, it has emerged suddenly, inexplicably, at the end of the twenty-fourth century, from the corroded ashes of an appalling cultural decay. It is square miles of undulating American Middle West farm land, transfigured by ingenious planning and relentless labor and incredible expense. It is the vacation land of the Solar System. ![]() From the babe in arms to the centenarian looking forward to retirement, everyone has been there, and plans to go again next year, and the year after that. It isn't possible to explain the Center, and it isn't necessary. You can emerge from the rolling mists of the Amazon, or the cutting dry winds of the Sahara, or the lunar vacuum, elbow your way up to a bar, and begin, “When I was at the Center-” and every stranger within hearing will listen attentively. From Bombay to Lima, from Spitsbergen to the mines of Antarctica, from the solitary outpost on Pluto to that on Mercury, it is-the Center. It has another name, a long one, that gets listed in government appropriations and has its derivation analyzed in encyclopedias, but no one uses it. And Lee’s take on “Mood Indigo” isolates the famous Ellington melody as performed by trombone great Joe “Tricky Sam” Nanton.Everyone calls it the Center. “Dewey’s Notion” is a tribute to the trombonist’s mentor, Delfeayo Marsalis, whose Uptown Jazz Orchestra served as an early proving ground. A high branch on a family tree of New Orleans trombonists, Lee makes sure to acknowledge his lineage. A cover of Isham Jones’ “There Is No Greater Love” is an especially noteworthy vocal demonstration, as is Lee’s arrangement of Joe Raposo’s “Bein’ Green,” on which the playfully lonesome lyrics-made famous by Kermit the Frog-are delivered with utmost seriousness and care. Lee possesses a warm, burnished tone-just witness his plunger-muted ventriloquism on “Old Man Speaks”-but he’s also an impressive vocalist, and his clean, honey-dipped voice enlivens four tracks. The bluesy title track packs similar thrust, steered with great authority by bassist Jasen Weaver and drummer Miles Labat. ![]() ![]() “DJ’s Induction” is a barrage of hard, brassy refrains, and features intricate solo work by the leader and pianist Shea Pierre. As a tunesmith, he tends toward a soulful, hard-bop mode, with melodies that push forward as if walking into the wind. Lee’s original tunes are the scaffolding of this substantial disc (of the 11 tracks, seven are the composer’s own). Even within straightahead jazz, trombone-led albums are rare animals, and it’s refreshing to encounter a project that is stellar not just for the uniqueness of its instrumentation but for the strength of its compositions and the sheer force of its swing. It’s a standout track on an album rife with highlights, and its kinetic climax packs a visceral punch. Harris’ debut solo album, is a “Here I am” moment if there ever was one, a gesture of exhilarating presence and elevated spirits that announces the arrival of lively new trombone voice. “A Pisces’ Dream,” the opening track of trombonist David L. Harris Blues I Felt (Self Release)īy Brian Zimmerman | Published April 2017
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