Oliver Lake: Jazz + Poetry

Jazz saxophonist Oliver Lake is best known for his work with the World Saxophone Quartet and his trio with Andrew Cyrille. But he's recently made one of the most complete artistic statements of his career in a very different setting -- a solo-saxophone-and-poetry performance piece titled Matador of 1st and 1st (Passin' Thru). And he presented a semi-staged version of this new work last Sunday night at the Green Street Grill in Central Square.

This isn't Lake's first solo-sax excursion: 20 years ago he founded his Passin' Thru label with a solo session of the same name, the long out-of-print Passin' Thru. Matador is less harsh and jarring than Passin' Thru, but no less modern -- the poems are grouped by theme without forming a narrative, and Lake can still startle listeners with his sudden fury, beguile the ear with his abstraction of the human voice, or touch the heart when he allows himself to be lyrical. His poetry, with its use of African-American song forms, its ironic wit, and its empathetic portraits of street people, gives the new material emotional complexity. Yet it's still inviting for the audience.

Lake's use of slang in the poetry mirrors his use of the blues and spirituals in the music. These so-called "low" forms coexist with the so-called "high" forms of avant-garde jazz without strain. In "Separation," when he says that "Aretha Franklin and Sun Ra are the same folks," he proves it with his horn. And throughout the album, he connects the sound of the human voice, either singing or in conversation, to the sound of his horns and the structure of the music, which is sometimes songlike and at others free-form.

Lake tackles serious subjects: his identity as an African American; questions of poverty and survival, of love, sex, and spirituality; and the pervasive materialism of American society. But he addresses them in down-to-earth imagery and with an often knowing, ironic sense of humor. MTV makes him angry; slang amuses and entertains him; raising a family, making art, and promoting his music all exhaust him; the historical and cultural continuities he sees in the African diaspora make him proud. He doesn't exclude himself from the foibles of love or from the dark comedy of intercultural miscommunication, either. He's the artist as everyman.

At Green Street, a few simple costume changes, the performer's stage presence, and some riveting improvising revealed different aspects of the several personas Lake assumes during the piece. A drunken stagger was enough to set the stage for his portrait of the homeless air-saxophonist in "My Man on the Bowery." And Lake's facial expressions and mischievous twinkle undercut his hip-hop body language during "MTV Raps" to hilarious effect. His direct address to the audience during "1st Trip" and "Fax Machine" added a powerful griot-storyteller touch. These conversational poems sounded right at home with verbal hooks like "Don't Go Crazy," which is little more than a blues-funk-soul riff, and the free-verse poetry of "Eneke." Then too, blues, gospel, bebop, free jazz, and pure sound all meld in Lake's saxophone playing, which, unamplified, resonated through the narrow room at Green Street.

-- Ed Hazell