Pianist Matthew Shipp and bassist William Parker are truly beasts. Not in that they're beast- like-- they don't bear any of the scary child- molester vibe of a Mick Jagger or Steven Tyler. They don't seem to be foul mannered, and as far as I know, they don't drool.
"What is this?" you say, in a thick Hungarian accent. "Why you say beess, when you say they are no beess- like?" For those looking for clues as to what I mean, I suggest you check out any recording with either of these two jazz giant's names attached to them. Feeling lazy? Check out the cover. Look at Shipp, face contorted in "I am rocking out" bliss, arms all tense and agile. Parker's photo on the back is, admittedly not as shit hot. But that's no matter.
When I say these men are beasts, I pay them the highest compliment. These are two men whose prodigal talent is so monstrous, it's oughta be put in a "Scary Stories" book between "The Girl Who Died of Terror When Her Friends Stabbed Her Skirt into the Ground With a Knife in the Graveyard" and "The Golden Arm." Whereas Mr. Wynton Marsalis proceeds to turn jazz into static classical music with his note- for- note renditions of Coltrane's early standards, guys like Shipp and Parker embody the adventurous spirit that made jazz's greats so unique in their time. Both were involved (along with this amazing female drummer whose name escapes me right now) in the last staggering Matthew Shipp Trio record which artfully melded ambitious melodic phrasing and dissonant improvisation with remarkable ease. This is not the type of stuff that you hear in your bougie coffee house. And good luck trying to fuck to it-- you'll be floored in blissful Hungarian impotence.
This time, they've ditched the drums, with the aim of exploring their improvisational technique. Given that there's only piano and bass, you might be wondering how interesting this would be. And admittedly, it's not for everybody. Everybody sucks, anyway. But what you get is a solid collection of wonderful sonic experiments which explore both the limits and the possibilities of their construction.
Bookended by two skewed takes on traditional songs ("When Johnny Comes Marching Home" and "Amazing Grace"), DNA is sometimes hauntingly beautiful, other times disturbing, but consistently challenging and interesting. "Cell Sequence" is a subdued piece guided by Shipp's meandering, fluid lines and Parker's punctuated bass riffs. "Orbit" is the closest the avant- garde will ever get to funk-- a seemingly dischordant melody guided by Shipp's stabbing piano rhythms. "Mr. Chromosome" shows Shipp at his most playful, using his piano to make the kind of random, bleeping that you'd find in a documentary about cell division. About halfway through, you begin to realize that Shipp must have really fast, smart hands. And then he catches a melody, Parker kicks in with a deft plunk on the ol' upright, and just when you're getting into it, there's a ferocious mashing of the keys.
In an age when improvisation is synonymous with either out- and- out wankery or the talent displayed by the guy on "Sesame Street" who bangs his head on the piano, DNA captures two beasts who understand how to make a glorious, smart and beautiful record. We're pleasantly scared.
