Maintenant is the French word for now, its two components being the words for "hand" and "hold." But then, it's hard to capture "now"-- and as any fan and follower of improvised music understands all too well, any brief epiphanies grasped too often slither away into empty gestures or extended technique until that next magical Moment occurs. Such moments, when experienced live, rarely reduce into words, and trying to nail that ephemeral moment in a studio environment (much less attempt to re-create past times) is a thankless endeavor, with lots of empty hands at the end of it. Loren Connors and David Grubbs had one of those Moments a few months ago out at the Greenwood Cemetery in Brooklyn, turning in a fine set of duets.
In general, the two guitarists can be relied upon to skirt uninspired time-filling or the practice of resorting to strange sounds for their own sake-- for better or for worse, their playing stays planted, be it roots in a motel room blues or po-mo songster threads for theses. On Arborvitae, the two capture every dimension of the uncluttered room they usually evoke, but unfortunately, they also attempt to capture the one-off feel of their cemetery performance, and, despite the fruitfulness of that initial meeting, their results here are far too two-dimensional.
"Blossom Time" opens with the sort of phrasing that Grubbs' elucidated to stunning effect on Palace Music's Arise Therefore and his first solo album for Table of the Elements. The vibrant wood of the piano is melodic-coat-rack enough for Connors to hang his notes and spectral overcoats, and he riddles the piece with melancholy feedback. Poignantly stated and played, the two guitarists spread out and cover the space.
But later, as the title track loses its harmonic framework at the halfway mark, the duo's tentative grip gets lost for good. Connors' once effervescent clouds reduce into flat puddles as he changes course-- he goes from fumbling feedback to mere melody echoing into some numbed-lip wah, uncertain how exactly to engage Grubbs' turgid piano plod. Grubbs can't keep it up, either, and his suspended piano goes pedestrian before stopping altogether. He switches to electric guitar for a few more minutes of meandering duets.
"Hemlock Path" wanders upon a sketch of melody, but prolonged exploration reveals the duo to be in separate rooms altogether, their movements and habitual gestures noticed too late to be followed. Grubbs sits back at the piano for "The Highest Point in Brooklyn", and I myself wonder where that might be. It's certainly not here: banged-out chords clang free some fine tube-glow chains from Connors, the two sounds twining tightly together for a moment before finally letting go. The phantom sounds remain insubstantial, and for momentary music, it's flatter than a ghost sheet.
