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      I Started Playing My Sax Outdoors. Then the Fans Came.

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      When your rehearsal space is the bank of the Hudson, the audience is a bit unconventional.It was Year 2 of the pandemic, in the spring, that I hit on the idea of having my high school saxophone refurbished. My 48-year-old horn came back from the repair shop in Midtown Manhattan a week later. I put it together in my Upper West Side apartment and … for the love of God, it was loud. A couple of days later, I saw my downstairs neighbor in the lobby, and he asked, “Is that a sax I hear?” He professed to be OK with my rudimentary jazz stylings, but I was uncomfortable.My building is directly adjacent to Riverside Park. The day after that encounter, I walked 10 minutes down to the bank of the Hudson, found an arrangement of boulders where I could put my case and started to improvise to some 1960s soul jazz playing through my headphones. I was loud. Gloriously, triumphantly loud. Within minutes, bike riders and strolling couples stopped to listen. Some took photos. After that, I took my sax to the park almost every day. Over the next few weeks and on through this summer, paddleboarders, canoers and motorboats on the river hove to the shore to listen for a few minutes. When the traffic on the nearby West Side Highway ground to a halt, I got a round of applause. I had at least two cameos on Instagram.I find it hard to practice inside now, even in my building, where the jazz pianist and composer Billy Strayhorn once lived. It’s inhibiting. I miss the expansiveness of playing outside. And I’ve found nature surprisingly attentive, despite the noise. Robins and sparrows — and only one word is possible here — flock to me as if I’m St. Francis of C Minor. Squirrels stand on their hind legs and fix me with hard stares, like miniature critics. My most cherished fan, though, was Zippy, a goose with whom I had a prior relationship. (My wife is known as the Goose Lady of Riverside Park, but that’s a subject for another essay.) One summer day, Zippy and his extended family were paddling south down the Hudson but then circled back and flew up to the riverbank next to me. Zippy sat there quietly for the next 45 minutes until I packed up to head home. There is nothing more satisfying than entertaining a goose you’re fond of.But, of course, it’s the interactions with people that mean the most. Little kids in matching T-shirts on day-camp outings are delighted. They clap for the noisy man. The guy with the wild hair, eating a sandwich on a nearby bench, loved it too. “Do you know Hall and Oates?” he asked. “You should learn ‘Maneater.’ You could make a lot of dough playing that. Hey, if you need some grub, that church on 99th is pretty good.” I wasn’t sure if I looked like I could use a square meal or just sounded like it.Robins and sparrows — and only one word is possible here — flock to me as if I’m St. Francis of C Minor. To be honest, I stink. This is not humble-bragging. I’m just realistic about my abilities. I imagine that for many people, what I’m playing sounds “jazzy.” (Common questions from passers-by: “Are you professional?” “Do you play in a club someplace?”) But if I showed up at Smalls, the Greenwich Village jazz spot, for one of their jam sessions, and someone said, “Let’s do ‘How High the Moon’ in D flat,” it wouldn’t take more than a few measures for the drummer to toss one of his cymbals at me. (It happened to Charlie Parker in Kansas City in the 1930s, although he went on to great things.) I’m OK with simple chord progressions or, better yet, just wailing to a Jimmy Smith recording. But I still can’t throw in those diminished-seventh licks or tritone substitutions at will. It’s shocking, really, how little I have progressed since fourth grade. I don’t care. When I play outdoors, perfection is neither possible nor expected.In 1960, Sonny Rollins, already one of the greatest tenor-sax players ever, quit recording and appearing in public so he could concentrate on getting better. He was living on the Lower East Side. He tried to practice in a closet (I’ve been there). Still too loud. There was a pregnant neighbor. “I felt real guilty,” he said, according to a 2022 biography. So he walked over to the Williamsburg Bridge and played outside day and night until he returned two years later with an LP called “The Bridge.” I’m not Sonny Rollins, but I can hear progress.I can be pretty jumpy in public. It’s New York: You pay attention (and a sax is not cheap). I was playing a few weeks ago at another spot I like, just off the main path that runs through the upper park. My sax case and music were on a stone wall. At some point, I noticed a man squatting a few feet behind me, fumbling through some kind of bag. I thought, Here we go! He stood up and lurched over to me, his hand raised. And then he said, “Do you want me to put it there?” indicating my open case. He had a few coins in his hand. This guy wasn’t in good shape — maybe under the influence of something, maybe just struggling with life — but he wanted to share what he had.I said: “That’s really nice of you, but I’m just practicing. Keep that for yourself.”“You sure?”“Yeah, I’m sure.” I did two taps on my heart.“I love what you’re doing,” he said, quite emotionally. He gave me a soul shake and then brought me in for a bro hug. “I love you, man.”“I love you too, man,” I said.Really, what I should do is go to the park with a case full of dollar bills and pass them out to the people (and geese) who stop to listen, because I owe them for a music lesson I didn’t know I needed.Harvey Dickson has been a staff editor at The Times since 1997, for the last 16 years at the magazine. He has also worked at The International Herald Tribune in Paris. More

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      Zach Bryan’s Melancholy Bon Iver Duet, and 9 More New Songs

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      Hear tracks by Holly Humberstone, Byron Messia, Laurel Halo and others.Every Friday, pop critics for The New York Times weigh in on the week’s most notable new tracks. Just want the music? Listen to the Playlist on Spotify here (or find our profile: nytimes). Like what you hear? Let us know at theplaylist@nytimes.com and sign up for our Louder newsletter, a once-a-week blast of our pop music coverage, and The Amplifier, a twice-weekly guide to new and old songs.Zach Bryan featuring Bon Iver, ‘Boys of Faith’The memorably wistful title track from the new Zach Bryan EP — which arrives just a few weeks after his most recent album — is a collaboration with Bon Iver, which means a couple of very pointed things. First, Bryan is making kin with fellow roots-adjacent cult heroes. Though he has become wildly successful improbably quickly, Bryan still fancies himself outside of the mainstream, stubbornly stomping to his own drum. That parallels the story of Bon Iver’s Justin Vernon, who likely could fill arenas if he was interested. Both singers are vividly emotional, too, building whole houses upon sadness. Where the two acts diverge is in tone — Bryan sings with raspy jabs, and Vernon buries himself behind echo and fog. Bryan is such a force, though, that he pulls Vernon in his direction on this song; when the two sing in harmony, Vernon sounds as if he’s chasing after Bryan ever so slightly, following his bark with moon-aimed howls. A lament followed by a hug. JON CARAMANICAHolly Humberstone, ‘Into Your Room’On her latest single, the warm, synth-pop tune “Into Your Room,” the English singer-songwriter Holly Humberstone oscillates between sincere yearning and wry, self-deprecating humor: “You’re the center of this universe, my sorry ass revolves around you,” she sings, begging forgiveness from someone she’s mistreated. There’s a casually tossed-off, conversational appeal to her lyrics and delivery, but when the chorus surges, she’s suddenly leading with her heart. LINDSAY ZOLADZTroye Sivan, ‘Get Me Started’Following the lusty thrill of his summertime single “Rush,” Troye Sivan starts catching feelings on “Get Me Started,” the second song released from his forthcoming album “Something to Give Each Other.” “He’s got the personality, not even gravity could ever hold him down,” Sivan sings atop an insistent, club-ready beat, aglow with the agony and ecstasy of a new crush. ZOLADZLandon Barker, ‘Friends With Your Ex’A disarmingly refined pop-punk debut single from Landon Barker — the son of Travis Barker, who plays drums here, and whose label is putting out the song. That teen-angst pop-punk became the de facto sonic landing place for the first wave of TikTok superstar pretty boys was about finding the safest available package of rebellion (and one that largely skirted issues of race). Barker is perhaps that movement’s third wave, following early adopters like Jaden Hossler and Chase Hudson, and then the mainstream carpetbagging of Machine Gun Kelly. Which is to say there is a lot to emulate — the blueprint is loud and easy to follow. It hardly almost matters who’s coloring in between the lines. CARAMANICAShakira and Fuerza Regida, ‘El Jefe’“Stick it to the man,” Shakira advises, in English, at the beginning of “El Jefe” (“The Man” or “The Boss”), a brisk polka-ska hybrid that teams Shakira — the paragon of Pan-American crossover — with Fuerza Regida, a regional Mexican band from California. Backed by crisply syncopated guitars and horns, the song is a worker’s gripe, in Spanish, about a grueling, underpaid, dead-end job with a lousy boss; “I arrive on foot, him in a Mercedes,” growls Fuerza Regida’s lead singer, Jesús Ortiz Paz. It’s peppy class warfare. JON PARELESByron Messia, ‘Mad Dawgs’Byron Messia’s breakout single, “Talibans,” is one of the year’s defining reggae songs, so saccharine you might miss its tough talk. Messia has a sweet voice that gets feistier the more clipped his singing becomes, and on his boastful new single “Mad Dawgs,” he comes almost all the way around to blustery, trading in much of his considered honeyed singing for a choppier rhythm more in key with the chest-puffing lyrics. CARAMANICAChelsea Wolfe, ‘Dusk’The goth crooner Chelsea Wolfe conjures a thick atmosphere on “Dusk,” her first new solo track since composing the score for Ti West’s 2022 slasher flick “X.” Produced by David Andrew Sitek of TV on the Radio, “Dusk” is centered around a slow, methodical beat, murky guitar chords and Wolfe’s breathy, eerie voice. “I will go through fire to get to you,” she sings with a haunting determination. ZOLADZLaurel Halo, ‘Sick Eros’Laurel Halo has a gift for the hallucinatory. “Atlas,” her first new album in five years, is a submersion into abstract imagination, resembling a head-spinning dream that shifts between epochs, story lines and locations. The Los Angeles-based conceptualist has explored Detroit techno, musique concrète and even left-field pop in the past, and was recently appointed to the faculty of Composition and Experimental Sound Practices at CalArts. But “Atlas” traces a new path, slithering between the textures of jazz, ambient and classical. On the highlight “Sick Eros,” a bass trembles and creaks, beats shiver and gurgle, synths groan and swell. There’s a Hitchcockian foreboding — a sense that someone is about to open a shadowy door and never return, or trip over an edge that will lead to oblivion. Discordant strings ache and decay, stretching over waves of vibration. By the song’s end, you can almost picture yourself at the Dead Marshes in the “Lord of the Rings,” gazing upon the corpses floating in the swamp, their spirits emerging from the water with a ghoulish menace. ISABELIA HERRERAColleen, ‘Be Without Being Seen — Movement I’A sense of peace is immanent to the music of Colleen, but especially the work she’s been making since putting aside her viola da gamba in 2017 and adopting an all-electronics approach, centered on modular synthesizers. Her new double LP, “Le Jour et la Nuit du Réel,” is a time-flattening work of minimalism, created with just a monophonic synth (that is, playing one note at a time) and two delay units. Toward the center of the album, the first of three short movements in “Be Without Being Seen” introduces a quizzical pattern of arpeggiated chords, and simply lets it hang in the air. GIOVANNI RUSSONELLOMicah Thomas, ‘Eros’Listeners to Immanuel Wilkins will recognize Micah Thomas’s piano playing almost immediately: the elastic-band rhythmic tension and snap, the gloriously spilled-out harmonic delivery, his imaginatively redistributed roles for the left and right hands. Thomas is both the binding agent and the stirrer of chaos in Wilkins’s quartet, which for the past few years has been the most praised young band in jazz. On “Eros,” from Thomas’s new trio album, “Reveal,” the bassist Dean Torrey and the drummer Kayvon Gordon cooperate at cross-purposes, a six-beat flow emerging beneath a web of syncopation. Let the drums guide the rhythm of your body; then see how it changes when you let the bass. Then find Thomas within that combination, absorbing it all. RUSSONELLO More

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      Charles Gayle, Saxophonist of Fire and Brimstone, Dies at 84

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      An intense and uncompromising player, he made music that one critic said was more about “motion and spirit” than tonal centers, rhythms and melodies.Charles Gayle, an uncompromising saxophonist who spent years living and performing on the streets of New York before beginning a recording career when he was nearly 50, died on Sept. 5 in Brooklyn. He was 84.His son Ekwambu, who had been caring for him as he dealt with Alzheimer’s disease, announced the death but did not specify a cause.Mr. Gayle said he had chosen to be homeless because it gave him the opportunity to explore music unencumbered by worries about changing tastes or living expenses. He was part of an ecstatic lineage of jazz avant-gardists like late-period John Coltrane and Albert Ayler, purveyors of a style often referred to as “fire music.”Mr. Gayle’s playing was eventually documented on nearly 40 albums under his name on a host of labels; he also recorded with the pianist Cecil Taylor, the bassist William Parker and the punk singer Henry Rollins.Reviewing the 2014 Vision Festival, at which Mr. Gayle was given a lifetime achievement award, the New York Times music critic Ben Ratliff wrote, “He plays tenor saxophone in cries and gabbles and interval jumps and long tones; his music usually describes motion and spirit rather than corresponding to preset tonal centers, rhythms and melodies.”An ardent Christian, Mr. Gayle channeled his intense spirituality not only into his sound; it was also reflected in the titles of many of his albums and in the screeds he delivered extemporaneously during his performances.Mr. Gayle also had an alternate musical persona called Streets: He would dress in a torn suit and clown shoes and wear makeup and a red nose. At first it was an occasional diversion, but he later performed as Streets regularly. In a 2014 interview with The New York City Jazz Record, he explained:“It wasn’t a gimmick or anything like that. I looked at myself one day in the mirror and said to myself, ‘Stop thinking about Charles.’ So I put a rubber nose on and said ‘That’ll work.’Mr. Gayle would sometimes dress in a torn suit and clown shoes, wear makeup and a red nose, and perform as an alternate musical persona called Streets.Northern Spy Records“It was really that simple,” he continued. “I saw a lot of clowns when I was young in the circus, but it was so liberating to go out in an audience while the band is playing and give a lady a rose or get rejected by her and everything — I can’t do that with regular clothes on. It helps a person mentally to escape — there’s a purpose in the escape, and it is the same thing as being in the music and trying to get past certain things. In order for me to do that I had to disappear.”Charles Ennis Gayle Jr. was born on Feb. 28, 1939, in Buffalo to Charles and Frances Gayle. His father was a steelworker. He studied numerous instruments in high school and excelled in basketball and track and field.Mr. Gayle in 1994. His recording career did not begin until he was nearly 50, but he steadily released albums as a leader from 1991 onward.Alan NahigianAfter a period at Fredonia State Teachers College, Mr. Gayle returned to Buffalo to begin his music career. He first played trumpet and piano in local clubs before concentrating more on tenor saxophone in self-produced concerts, while also working at a Westinghouse factory and later at a bank providing loans for Black-owned businesses.From 1970 to 1973, Mr. Gayle was an assistant professor of music at the State University of New York at Buffalo (now the University at Buffalo). But, tiring of institutional responsibilities, he left academia and moved to New York City to pursue music exclusively. He had been there for almost a decade when he decided to live on the streets.In the 2014 interview, he recalled: “I just walked out one day and that was it. That was one of the greatest experiences I had in my life, though I didn’t do it for that reason. You have nothing and you’re not asking anybody for anything. We seek security, and you learn about how people perceive you because of what you look like or what they think you’re about.”He had music ready for release by ESP-Disk, Mr. Ayler’s label from 1964 to 1966, but those plans were scuttled when the company went out of business in 1975. (That session has yet to be heard, but the label was revived in 2005 and released a 1994 performance by Mr. Gayle’s trio in 2012.)Mr. Gayle spent more than 15 years homeless, performing on the streets of New York. Then, in 1987, he began his second act.After the promoter Michael Dorf heard Mr. Gayle play, he was booked regularly at Mr. Dorf’s Lower Manhattan club, the Knitting Factory. Music he recorded at sessions in April 1988 became three albums for the Swedish label Silkheart Records. From 1991 onward, Mr. Gayle would steadily release albums under his own name — some as the leader of a trio or quartet, others as a solo performer — among them “Repent,” “Consecration,” “Testaments,” “Daily Bread” and “Christ Everlasting.”In a 2013 interview with Cadence magazine, he reflected on the perils of being outspoken about his religious beliefs in his concerts, delivered with the fervor of a country preacher:“People have told me to shut up and stuff. I understand that I can turn people off with what I say or do. The problem that people have with me is not me, it’s Christ they have a problem with. I understand that when you start speaking about faith or religion, they want you to keep it in a box, but I’m not going to do that. Not because I’m taking advantage of being a musician; I’m the same everywhere, and people have to understand that.”Mr. Gayle also had a notable collaborative group with Mr. Parker and the drummer Rashied Ali and was a guest on two albums by Mr. Rollins. In addition to tenor saxophone, he played alto and soprano saxophones, piano, viola, upright bass and drums. He is seen and heard in an interview and playing with the German bassist Peter Kowald’s trio in a 1985 documentary, “Rising Tones Cross,” produced and directed by his former wife Ebba Jahn.A biography of Mr. Gayle by Cisco Bradley, with all proceeds going to the Gayle family, is scheduled for publication in late 2024.Mr. Gayle’s three marriages all ended in divorce. In addition to his son Ekwambu, from his second marriage, his survivors include two other sons, Michael, from the first, and Dwayne, from his marriage to Ms. Jahn.The drummer Michael Wimberley, who worked Mr. Gayle from the early 1990s well into the new millennium, called him “a father, mentor and friend whom I had the pleasure of creating some of the most adventurous improvised sounds, shapes and musical dialogues with.”“Charles’s intensity on the horn,” he added, “was so powerful in person. I had never experienced anything like music of that intensity before! He pulled me into the sonic center of his sound and raptured me.” More

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      Bobby Schiffman, Guiding Force of the Apollo Theater, Dies at 94

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      Taking over for his father in 1961, he transformed a former vaudeville house in Harlem into a pre-eminent R&B showcase.Bobby Schiffman, who guided the Apollo Theater in Harlem through the seismic cultural and musical changes of the 1960s and early ’70s, cementing its place as a world-renowned showcase for Black music and entertainment, died on Sept. 6 at his home in Boynton Beach, Fla. He was 94.His death was confirmed by his son, Howard.In 1961, Mr. Schiffman inherited the reins of the storied neoclassical Apollo Theater on West 125th Street in Manhattan from his father, Frank Schiffman. The elder Mr. Schiffman, along with a financial partner, Leo Brecher, had taken over the theater — a former burlesque house that opened in 1914 as a whites-only establishment — in 1935.Frank Schiffman transformed the theater from a vaudeville house hosting acts like Al Jolson and the Marx Brothers into an epicenter for Black artists performing for largely Black audiences in an era of de facto cultural segregation. During the 1930s and ’40s, the elder Mr. Schiffman provided early exposure to countless African American luminaries, including Count Basie, Billie Holiday and Duke Ellington.Frank Schiffman was respected and feared for his fierce competitiveness. “In Harlem show business circles he was God — a five-foot-nine-inch, white, Jewish, balding, bespectacled deity,” the music writer Ted Fox observed in his 1983 book, “Showtime at the Apollo.”Bobby, the younger of his two sons, was more affable and easygoing, but lacked none of his father’s drive or ambition.“I don’t think Bobby Schiffman gets enough credit for being a great impresario,” Mr. Fox said in a phone interview. “Through enormous changes in musical tastes, styles and culture in general, he kept the theater going, doing 31 shows a week, seven days a week, year after year for decades, in a way that no other theater has ever been able to do.”His father had run the theater along the old vaudeville model, as a venue for variety shows. “Frank was old school,” Howard Schiffman said of his grandfather in a phone interview. “He was like Ed Sullivan. He thought that there should be a juggler and an animal act on every show.”Mr. Schiffman, second from left, with his father, Frank Schiffman; the tap dancer Honi Coles, who worked for many years as the Apollo’s production manager; and, standing, Mercer Ellington, Duke Ellington’s son and later the leader of the Ellington orchestra. Mr. Schiffman took over the Apollo from his father in 1961.via Apollo Theater“My father,” he added, “turned the Apollo into the R&B showcase that it became.”Faced with keeping the lights on at a compact 1,500-seat theater with little financial cushion, Bobby Schiffman “made it his business to find out what the people in the streets were listening to,” Mr. Fox said.“He would go into the bars and see what was on the jukebox,” he added, “he would talk to local D.J.s and record store owners to find out what was coming out, and book them while they were still unknown.”Winners of the theater’s famous and long-running Wednesday Amateur Night during Mr. Schiffman’s tenure included Gladys Knight, Ronnie Spector, Jimi Hendrix and the Jackson 5.By providing support and exposure, he nurtured young stars “before they became superstars,” Mr. Fox said, “and would later appeal to them to appear, at great financial sacrifice, to come back and play for the people who made them.”During the years Mr. Schiffman managed the Apollo, it became a symbol of arrival to generations of performers. “It was the pinnacle,” the Motown star Smokey Robinson once said.Tyrone Dukes/The New York TimesDuring Mr. Schiffman’s tenure as manager, the Apollo served not only as a launching pad to fame but also, eventually, as a symbol of arrival to generations of performers. “It was the pinnacle,” the Motown star Smokey Robinson once said. “It was the most important theater in the world. Once you could say you had played the Apollo, you could get in any door anywhere.”The Apollo’s reputation went global, thanks in part to hit live recordings made there by stars like James Brown, an Apollo regular, who recorded the landmark album “‘Live’ at the Apollo” in October 1962. Widely regarded as one of the great live albums, it hit No. 6 on the Billboard chart in 1963 and remained in the Top 10 for 39 weeks.The Apollo’s reputation went global thanks in part to albums like James Brown’s “‘Live’ at the Apollo,” which spent 39 weeks in the Billboard Top 10 in 1963.King“For years,” Mr. Schiffman said in a 2014 interview with The Daily News in New York, “you could write ‘Apollo Theater’ on a postcard, drop it into a mailbox anywhere and it would be delivered. How many theaters can you say that about?”Robert Lee Schiffman was born on Feb. 12, 1929, in Manhattan, the youngest of Frank and Lee Schiffman’s three children.He grew up in Mount Vernon, N.Y., a suburb north of the city, where he attended A.B. Davis High School with Dick Clark, the future host of “American Bandstand.”After earning a bachelor’s degree in business from New York University, Mr. Schiffman spent the early 1950s working his way up the ladder at the Apollo. “He did every terrible job in the place, from cleaning bathrooms to taking tickets,” his son said.During Mr. Schiffman’s heyday at the Apollo in the 1960s, his office functioned as a nerve center for Black culture. Local politicians like Representative Adam Clayton Powell Jr. and sports stars like Muhammad Ali would drop by for a chat.By the 1970s, however, Harlem was being increasingly buffeted by drugs, crime and economic decline, and the live-music business was changing. With color barriers in music breaking down, the Apollo was unable to maintain its lure for artists who had become arena-packing juggernauts.“The big stars would say, ‘We love you, Bobby, but we can play the Apollo and sell 1,500 tickets or play Madison Square Garden and sell 18,000,’” Howard Schiffman said.Mr. Schiffman finally shuttered the theater in 1976. The Apollo reopened under new management in 1978 but closed again the next year. In 1981, the media and technology executive Percy E. Sutton, a former Manhattan borough president, purchased the theater with a group of investors. It was declared a state and city landmark in 1983, and in 1991 it was taken over by the Apollo Theater Foundation, a nonprofit organization.Mr. Schiffman later oversaw the Westchester Premier Theater in Tarrytown, N.Y., before retiring to Florida.In addition to his son, from his marriage to Joan Landy, which ended in divorce in 1973, he is survived by his fourth wife, Betsy (Rothman) Schiffman; his stepsons from that marriage, Barry and Michael Rothman; six grandchildren; and two great-grandsons. His marriages to Renee Levy and Rusty Donner also ended in divorce.While the Apollo became famous for its stars and spectacle, Mr. Schiffman never forgot its unique role as a locus for Harlem life.“We were in the business of pleasing the Black community,” he said in an interview for the book “Showtime at the Apollo.” “If white folks came as an ancillary benefit, that was fine. But the basic motto was to bring the people of the community entertainment they wanted at a price they could afford to pay.”When he overstepped his bounds, the community let him know. “The highest price I ever charged was six dollars,” Mr. Schiffman added. “I tried seven for Redd Foxx once, and they stayed away in droves.” More

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      Maren Morris Revels in a Fresh Start, and 10 More New Songs

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      Hear tracks by Cat Power, Chris Stapleton, Loraine James and others.Every Friday, pop critics for The New York Times weigh in on the week’s most notable new tracks. Just want the music? Listen to the Playlist on Spotify here (or find our profile: nytimes). Like what you hear? Let us know at theplaylist@nytimes.com and sign up for our Louder newsletter, a once-a-week blast of our pop music coverage, and The Amplifier, a twice-weekly guide to new and old songs.Maren Morris, ‘The Tree’Maren Morris forcefully pulls free of a bad relationship in “The Tree,” an arena-scale waltz full of botanical imagery: “The rot at the roots is the root of the problem/But you wanna blame it on me.” Buttressed by a massive drumbeat, power chords and a choir, Morris has clearly made up her mind: “I’ll never stop growing.” JON PARELESMitski, ‘My Love Mine All Mine’Mitski’s seventh album, “The Land Is Inhospitable and So Are We” — out Friday — is suffused with a luminous warmth and an easy confidence that are both on ample display on the single “My Love Mine All Mine.” “Nothing in the world belongs to me but my love,” Mitski sings in a clarion croon, as a chorus of backing singers fill out the atmosphere around her. Tinkling barroom piano and the occasional whine of pedal steel give the song a nocturnal country flair, while Mitski leads the way at an unhurried tempo that seems to slow time itself. LINDSAY ZOLADZCat Power, ‘She Belongs to Me (Live at the Royal Albert Hall)’Last year, Chan Marshall, who records as Cat Power, played a full performance recreating Bob Dylan’s fabled 1966 “Royal Albert Hall” concert (which actually took place at the Manchester Free Trade Hall). On Nov. 10, she’ll release a live album of the full 15-song set, including this stirring rendition of “She Belongs to Me.” A prolific and intuitive interpreter of other people’s songs, Marshall brings the right balance of reverence and invention to this 1965 Dylan classic, slowing the original’s tempo and conveying a coziness through the crackling, bonfire warmth of her voice. ZOLADZChris Stapleton, ‘Think I’m in Love With You’The stolid backbeat, laconic guitar hooks, stealthy organ chords and hovering string arrangement of “Think I’m in Love With You” come straight out of 1970s Memphis soul. So do Chris Stapleton’s vocal choices; his leaps, quavers and evasions of the beat can be traced to Al Green. But Stapleton brings his own drama and grit to the style; his homage carries an emotional charge. PARELESParchman Prison Prayer, ‘Break Every Chain’Inmates at Mississippi’s notorious Parchman Farm prison sing at weekly church services. Like the folklorist Alan Lomax in the 1940s, earlier this year the producer Ian Brennan visited Parchman to record. In one Sunday session, he gathered fervent gospel performances, most of them solo and unaccompanied, from prisoners, collectively billed as Parchman Prison Prayer. Proceeds from the album, “Some Mississippi Sunday Morning,” will benefit the Mississippi Department of Corrections Chaplain Services. One is from M. Kyles, a prisoner in his 50s, whose voice sails aloft as he extols the power of Jesus’s name to “Break Every Chain.” PARELESNas, ‘Fever’Nas, like hip-hop itself, turns 50 this year, and in “Fever” he’s “celebrating years of flows and crazy wordplay/Seasoned, I’m leaving my 40s, I’m a griot.” Backed by minor-chord loops of guitars, strings and distant voices, his raspy voice is both proud and generous: “I wish at least 50 on all my good people,” he declares. PARELESLoraine James featuring Morgan Simpson, ‘I DM U’The electronic producer Loraine James teams up with the indefatigable muscle power of Morgan Simpson — Black Midi’s drummer — in “I DM U” from her album out next week, “Gentle Confrontation.” She dispenses sustained chords and sporadic bass lines at a stately tempo; he’s all over his kit, barreling ahead at quadruple speed, impulsive where she’s measured. But they’re working in tandem, moving forward together. PARELESJenn Champion, ‘Jessica’Grief and anger roil in “Jessica,” a quietly devastated ballad about a friend’s fatal overdose. Jenn Champion, who has been making music since she was a member of Carissa’s Wierd in the 1990s, double tracks her voice over a cycle of three basic, echoey piano chords as she mourns “stupid dead Jessica,” a friend she loved, who couldn’t overcome her addiction: “Honestly, who OD’s in their [expletive] 40s,” she sings, even as she recognizes, “Our friends die but we keep getting older.” PARELESSnail Mail, ‘Easy Thing (Demo)’Lindsey Jordan’s recordings as Snail Mail have increasingly reveled in the possibilities of studio production. But songs have to start somewhere, and “Easy Thing” — an unreleased song that will be included on an EP of demos from the 2021 album “Valentine” — harks back to Jordan’s sparse early recordings. It’s a waltz backed by just a few home-recorded tracks — guitars, flutelike synthesizer and an occasional harmony vocal — as Jordan sings about still longing for an ex who moved on. “Forget about that girl,” she urges, though not exactly confidently. “We’ll always have that easy thing.” PARELESKavita Shah and Bau, ‘Flor de Lis’On her quietly riveting new album, “Cape Verdean Blues,” the vocalist and folklorist Kavita Shah teams up with Bau, a guitarist and one of Cape Verde’s best-known musicians, to explore the island nation’s repertoire of traditional ballads and dance songs. But on “Flor de Lis,” Shah and Bau take a detour to Brazil, playing this popular samba by the MPB musician Djavan. Shah’s vocals maintain pitch-perfect clarity even as she arcs a high melody over the chorus. GIOVANNI RUSSONELLOSteve Lehman, ‘Chimera’How Steve Lehman gets music to sound the way he does is both an object of fascination and, to some degree, a mystery we must accept. To unpack it, you’d have to understand how he uses spectral harmony — a computer-assisted approach that treats the shapes and contours of sound waves as the basis for harmony — and that’s before you even begin to decode his densely scribbled, tone-smearing saxophone lines. Indeed, “Chimera” is an apt name for a piece of his. This version of the tune (which has been in his repertoire for years) begins with two minutes of Chris Dingman’s vibraphone mixing with other mallets and chimes, thickening the air before Lehman’s alto saxophone enters, joined by a full horn section, playing in pulses and stabs. Drums and bass put their weight into a tensile, halting rhythm. The tune comes from Lehman’s new album, “Ex Machina,” which he recorded with the Orchestre National de Jazz in France (the birthplace of spectral composition, by the way). Lehman’s music, always flooded with ideas, has rarely felt so fully fleshed out and exposed. RUSSONELLO More

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      How Pharoah Sanders Beckoned the Gods on the Intimate ‘Pharoah’

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      The three-song 1976 recording arrives in a new boxed set at what seems a perfect moment to deepen our appreciation for the saxophonist’s role in music history.In trying to capture what lay at the powerful core of the saxophonist Pharoah Sanders’s music, the British journalist Valerie Wilmer once referenced a conversation with a Nigerian composer. “In all ritual song there is that slow beat, trying to call the gods,” the (unnamed) musician had told her. “There’s no rush. It’s a slow process, as though one is praying.”“Pharoah Sanders,” Wilmer declared, achieved “precisely this mood” in the music he made in the late 1960s and ’70s, just before and then after his mentor, John Coltrane, died.Sanders generally used large ensembles to get there, with horns, mixed percussion and multiple basses cracking open the firmament over incantatory grooves. But in summer 1976, after parting ways with Impulse! Records — “the house that Trane built,” and his home for more than a decade — he dialed down. He traveled with his wife Bedria and a small band to a rustic studio in upstate New York, and recorded what would become one of his most intimate and serene works, titled simply “Pharoah.”Made in the weeks leading up to what would have been Coltrane’s 50th birthday, the album includes the highlight “Harvest Time,” 20 minutes and all of Side A, with Bedria on harmonium and a restful prayer coming from Sanders’s saxophone. Released in limited batches on LP the following year, and then in a small run of CDs in the 1990s, “Pharoah” has been passed around for decades mostly as a bootleg. For those who have experienced it, the album often becomes a touchstone. Sanders’s work can feel so grand, so tapped-in, so collectively powerful, it’s hard to isolate his expression within the fray. The saxophonist Shabaka Hutchings once wrote that he found it “difficult to regard Pharoah Sanders as an individual,” meaning this as a deep compliment. But not so on “Harvest Time.”One person who felt this record’s formative influence was Sam Shepherd, the multi-hyphenate musician who records as Floating Points. He released a collaborative album, “Promises,” with Sanders in 2021, the year before the saxophonist died at 81. If you’d heard “Harvest Time,” you could easily recognize that the expansive, high-contrast “Promises” was written in conversation with it.Sanders and Sam Shepherd, the electronic musician and composer known as Floating Points, during the recording of the album “Promises” in Los Angeles in 2019.Eric Welles-Nyström“Promises” came out on David Byrne’s Luaka Bop imprint, and Shepherd urged the label to think about reissuing “Pharoah” next. Then they learned about the existence of some live recordings of “Harvest Time” from a 1977 European tour. This Friday it all comes out as a remastered vinyl set, in a creatively packaged box that includes a bonus LP with two live versions of “Harvest Time.”Sanders had been at Coltrane’s right hand for the last two years of the bandleader’s career, when his music turned explosive and totally free. In 1968, the poet and critic Amiri Baraka wrote that he could envision Sanders “coming through the desert to claim what I think will be his. His birth rite, as left to him, by Trane, his own true father.” Man, expectations.Sanders handled it by making the music the focus, not his role within it. “He was very humble, quiet, liked to listen,” the guitarist Tisziji Muñoz, who recorded the indelible guitar accompaniment on “Harvest Time,” said in an interview. “But he had a strong viewpoint. If he had to tell you something, you’d have to be prepared for it.”Greg Bandy, the drummer on “Pharoah” and a longtime Sanders collaborator, said that when the saxophonist did speak, his words had magnitude. “He used to say, ‘Tell about the one that made us all!’ And that’s how it went. What can you say about that? That’s a mouthful of information,” Bandy said in an interview. “Pharoah was just naturally born with the spirit.”Born in 1940 in Little Rock, Ark., Sanders arrived in New York in the early 1960s, by way of a Bay Area blues and jazz scene that had more or less rejected him. “You should go play in New York,” he remembered people telling him. “Learn all the standard songs, get your tuxedo and learn how to work — learn how to live this kind of life.”Sanders in Frankfurt in 2013. “Pharoah” was made in the weeks leading up to what would have been his mentor John Coltrane’s 50th birthday.Manfred Roth/Ullstein Bild, via Getty ImagesThat’s not exactly how it went. In New York, the blues came to him. Sanders lived without an address for over two years, but he developed a reputation on the avant-garde, and a lifestyle centered on wellness and music. He practiced yoga with the saxophonist Marion Brown, and carried a jar of whole wheat germ in his saxophone bag.Sanders became known for changing his saxophone reeds as often as his side musicians, forever seeking the perfect “sound.” That pursuit produced some remarkable albums in the late 1960s and ’70s, like “Karma” (featuring his anthem, “The Creator Has a Master Plan,” with Leon Thomas on yodeling vocals), “Thembi” and “Deaf Dumb Blind (Summun Bukmun Umyun).” But he turned off more critics than he appealed to, especially his split-tone saxophone playing, which was both an expression of catharsis and a callback to West African techniques of “vocal chording.”On “Pharoah,” Sanders embraced the less incendiary elements of his style. As he said candidly in an interview after the album’s release, he’d hoped that isolating his tender side might produce “something that would sell well.”The session had come about when Bob Cummins, a self-taught audio engineer who had recently started a small label called India Navigation, approached Sanders, his musical hero, with an offer to record at the humble Nyack, N.Y., studio that he’d built with his wife, Nancy. He insisted that Sanders bring a lean setup, suggesting a spartan bass-and-sax recording, but when the saxophonist arrived, he had Bedria and five other musicians with him. (For Sanders, this was a small group.)It all became a bit of a disaster — except the record itself. Somehow, Cummins’s spare setup proved just sufficient, and the three tracks on “Pharoah” stand out from everything Sanders had been playing in that period: They resist peaking, staying quieter and more direct.“Harvest Time” centers on a finger-plucked guitar, with an underwater tremolo effect, alternating — in classic Sanders style — between just two chords. (In the recovered live recordings included with this release, Sanders plays Muñoz’s part on the saxophone; those chords are the song’s melody.) In come Steve Neil’s steady bass, Sanders’s searching lines and then Bedria’s gusts of harmonium, filling the air.In some ways this was in the spirit of Trane, but it was also outside his shadow, casting toward ambient music. On another track, “Love Will Find a Way,” Sanders reaches for a jazz-rock sound more related to Santana or the Grateful Dead, letting Muñoz’s distorted guitar lines tear ahead.David Redfern/Redferns, via Getty ImagesSanders would rerecord that song in 1977, in a distant-cousin version, for Arista, committing to a more commercial route with a backing of CTI Records-esque strings. The LPs that followed often felt like negotiations between his id and his audience, often to rewarding result, like on “Journey to the One” and “Beyond a Dream.”In his 2020 tribute to Sanders, Hutchings mentioned that the elder’s music represented “the cyclical view which sees the prominence of individual players as transient but the group contribution as reaching for eternity.” That is, he was just a vessel — an awesome one. By that view, maybe it shouldn’t be hard to defend the decision to present a concert next week at the Hollywood Bowl, featuring Sanders and Floating Points’s “Promises,” with Hutchings filling in on the tenor saxophone parts. By another perspective, it’s a bit off-putting to see a younger musician dropped in to fill the shoes of such a purposeful figure.There is something more appealing about the “Harvest Time Project,” a traveling performance scenario that will put Muñoz together with an intergenerational mix of musicians in an active upholding of Sanders’s pursuit. A workshop performance — potentially the best kind, for this group — will be held on Oct. 14 at National Sawdust in Brooklyn (featuring the bassist Joshua Abrams, the guitarist Jeff Parker, the drummer Chad Taylor, the saxophonist James Brandon Lewis), before it heads to Europe.Bedria Sanders said music was a verb, not a noun, for Sanders, a constant lifeline. “Music was something to elevate you above all this other stuff that was going on, to a more spiritual realm,” she said in an interview, remembering their six years together. “To put you back on focus, to get back to yourself and what you really are here for. To get back to the natural state of the universe, which is peace.” More

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      Curtis Fowlkes, Avant-Jazz Pioneer of the 1980s, Dies at 73

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      A founder of the acclaimed Jazz Passengers, he was also a sought-after sideman who played trombone for both jazz and rock heavyweights.Curtis Fowlkes, a trombonist and vocalist who was best known as a founder of the Jazz Passengers, a playfully eclectic ensemble that emerged from the New York avant-jazz underground of the 1980s to achieve critical acclaim while collaborating with the likes of Elvis Costello, Debbie Harry and Jeff Buckley, died on Aug. 31 in Brooklyn. He was 73.His son, Saadiah, said he died in a hospital of congestive heart failure.Blending sly humor and artistic daring with soft-spoken dignity, Mr. Fowlkes was the “balancing magician” of the Jazz Passengers, Roy Nathanson, the band’s co-founder and saxophonist, said in a phone interview.The Jazz Passengers released 11 albums, starting with “Broken Night Red Light” in 1987, without ever achieving more than modest commercial success. But with a fan base largely consisting of cognoscenti and fellow musicians, the band’s reputation far outweighed its sales.Mr. Fowlkes’s supple trombone stylings also stood out in his work as a sought-after sideman for jazz notables like Henry Threadgill, Charlie Haden and Bill Frisell, as well as for rock stars like Lou Reed and Levon Helm.“He was equally at home with boppish fluency or a gutbucket blare, often incorporating the array of lip slurs, wobbles and pitch slides that can make a trombone evoke a human voice,” Nate Chinen, a former New York Times music critic, recently wrote for the Philadelphia-based public radio station WRTI.He also provided rich, nuanced vocals for the band, which made waves in 1994 with the album “In Love.” That album featured vocals by Jeff Buckley, the star-crossed sensation who was then just beginning his career (he would die young in 1997), as well as Mavis Staples and Ms. Harry, who became a regular member of the band.The Jazz Passengers in an undated photo. From left: Bill Ware, Sam Bardfeld, Mr. Fowlkes, E.J. Rodriguez, Ray Nathanson, Ben Perowsky and Brad Jones.Dana WareThe band’s 1996 album, “Individually Twisted,” included a duet with Ms. Harry and Mr. Costello on the jazz standard “Don’cha Go ‘Way Mad.”“Its pleasures are various and manifest,” the critic Robert Christgau wrote in a review, “and if they’re over the head of the average Costello completist, that’s because this pop move isn’t aimed at any kind of average.”The Jazz Passengers were part of a wave of musicians pushing the frontiers of jazz in the 1980s and ’90s that was centered in clubs like the Knitting Factory in downtown Manhattan and included the saxophonist John Zorn, the clarinetist Don Byron and the saxophonist John Lurie, who became a face of New York cool as an actor in films like Jim Jarmusch’s “Stranger Than Paradise” and “Down by Law.”Mr. Fowlkes and Mr. Nathanson, who met while playing in the pit orchestra of the Big Apple Circus in 1981, broke onto the scene in Mr. Lurie’s band the Lounge Lizards in the early 1980s before splitting off to pursue their own off-kilter musical vision.Blending post-bop jazz, performance art and old-time vaudeville slapstick, the Jazz Passengers were “a crew of jazz oddities,” as New York magazine once described them, specializing in “perky, irreverent, sometimes gorgeously cinematic music that somehow manages to orbit both Sun Ra and the Marx Brothers.”The live production “The Jazz Passengers in Egypt,” which premiered at the La MaMa Experimental Theater Club in the East Village in 1990, was equal parts jazz show, performance art piece and borscht-belt comedy routine, with a plot involving a dream sequence in ancient Egypt.“We were really goofballs,” Mr. Nathanson said. “We really wanted this band to be like Brooklyn guys on the street — funny, less cool — but also seriously connected to the language of jazz.”Curtis Mataw Fowlkes was born on March 19, 1950, in the Bedford-Stuyvesant neighborhood of Brooklyn, along with his twin brother, James. His father, also named James, made machine parts for an aircraft manufacturer on Long Island; his mother, Rosa (Coor) Fowlkes, was a homemaker.In addition to his son, he is survived by his brother; a daughter, Elisheba Fowlkes; and three grandchildren. His marriage to Cynthia Lewis ended in divorce last year.Mr. Fowlkes grew up in a house filled with the jagged rhythms of his father’s bebop records. He chose trombone for his instrument in elementary school because he figured too many people would want to play his first choice, saxophone.“People didn’t even know what the trombone was,” he said in a 2011 interview with Kira Joy Williams, a Brooklyn-based artist and photographer. “I barely knew what it was. But I had made a statement that gave me some control.”As a student at Samuel J. Tilden High School, Mr. Fowlkes started to earn money with his music, playing trombone with local Latin, R&B, funk and reggae bands, and continued playing part time after graduation.“I was into my 20s and still playing music, but I was taking day jobs too,” he said in a 1988 video interview. “I worked construction jobs, and some of my friends would say, ‘Well, look, we want to do a certain style of music but we can’t make a living off of it, so we’re going to take jobs so we can do the music we like to do.’”“But now,” he added, “when I look back on it, I realized that you have to devote yourself to music.” More

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      Ambrose Akinmusire Learned to Let Go (With Help From Joni Mitchell)

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      For arguably the most technically gifted trumpeter of his generation, a lot of Ambrose Akinmusire’s breakthroughs actually come from letting go of standards and structures.Take the moment about 10 years ago when, shortly after becoming friends with his lifelong creative idol, Joni Mitchell, Akinmusire found himself in a bathroom at her Los Angeles home, playing into a microphone. She’d suggested that he record trumpet for a new version of her song “Borderline,” and he was struggling to find a part that fit.“I wasn’t getting it right. And she was like, ‘I know what you need: You need an egg shaker,’” he said recently in a video interview, still a touch amazed to be telling this story. Mitchell started rattling the shakers wildly, way outside the time signature. His hopes darkened. “But I played the track with her doing that, and for some reason it locked it in for me,” Akinmusire said. Suddenly, “I was able to play.”And there was the time, just after the pandemic began, when Akinmusire decided to finally take the advice of Bennie Maupin — a multi-instrumentalist best known for his work with Miles Davis and Herbie Hancock — who had once told him to try improvising with only a drummer. “You can get to some new stuff if you just set up with a drummer and practice,” Maupin had told him. So in 2020, when life slowed to a standstill, Akinmusire started getting together with the young drummer Timothy Angulo at a grocery store parking lot near where he lived in Oakland, Calif. Five or six days a week for over a year, they would set a timer and improvise freely for a solid hour.“I don’t think I’ve ever grown more as a musician than in that time,” said Akinmusire, 41, speaking from a messily ordered room in the Berkeley home he now shares with his partner, the poet and novelist Shabnam Piryaei, and their young son.Lately Akinmusire has been making some of the most intimate, spellbinding music of his career. In June he self-released “Beauty Is Enough,” a solo trumpet album, gentle of breath and tender of phrase, recorded at a Paris cathedral. And in early December, Nonesuch Records will release “Owl Song,” an achingly spartan LP, on which Akinmusire leads a trio featuring the guitarist Bill Frisell and the drummer Herlin Riley through a handful of line-drawn original tunes.Frisell, a 72-year-old jazz eminence and a regular collaborator with Akinmusire, said he’s bowled over by the trumpeter’s restraint these days. “There’s this clarity in everything that he plays,” Frisell said recently. “The architecture of it has this incredible power.” Even in its simplicity, Akinmusire’s trumpet can feel almost dangerously tender: “like an exposed nerve,” Frisell said.If his style has grown increasingly spare, the same cannot be said of his workload. Akinmusire recently held down residencies at the Walker Art Center in Minneapolis and at SFJazz, where he convened the Riley-Frisell trio for the first time; he’s been writing the score for the Starz show “Blindspotting,” which is written by his old Berkeley High School classmate Daveed Diggs; he recently completed an hourlong electronic composition to accompany a dance piece by Aszure Barton; he is working on the music for a Will Smith-produced podcast on hip-hop; he is completing a commission for chamber orchestra; and he has two more albums already in the pipeline, due for release on Nonesuch next year.Starting this fall, all of that will have to fit around Akinmusire’s new role as artistic director of the Herbie Hancock Institute of Jazz Performance at U.C.L.A.A product of the academic age in jazz, Akinmusire’s creative life has been intertwined with the Hancock institute nearly from the start. He grew up nurtured by Oakland’s local jazz scene and the music of his family’s church and put in a formative early stint in the saxophonist and composer Steve Coleman’s band, then enrolled in the two-year program at what was known at the time as the Thelonious Monk Institute of Jazz. He won its king-making trumpet competition in 2007, with a style so elliptical and distinct — glancing on Fats Navarro and Lee Morgan and Terence Blanchard, but not mimicking anyone — that it quickly changed the game for young trumpeters in New York.“Watching him develop over the years has been really exciting,” Herbie Hancock, the institute’s chairman, said in a statement when the appointment was announced in July.Akinmusire could represent a contemporary jazz ideal: the scholarly composer-improviser, working across media while keeping a number of small groups together, refining a personal inflection on his instrument all the while. But the closer he gets to institutional leadership, the more he tends to pull away from the passive role of ambassadorship. After a decade with Blue Note, jazz’s most iconic label, he said he wanted to enjoy not knowing exactly “what type of records I was going to make,” and the genre-blind Nonesuch seemed like a place to be agnostic.“Heart Emerges Glistening” was released in 2011 to wide acclaim, and Akinmusire became the No. 1 rising star artist in the DownBeat critics’ poll. And his life seemed to go a little screwy. “People are starting to interact with me a little weird, my friends are being strange,” he remembered thinking. “I don’t want any part of this.” So he moved to Los Angeles, where the jazz scene is smaller and more spread out, and did some hibernating. He stopped writing music for a while, leaned on Piryaei a bit. And he reconnected with Mitchell, whom he’d met, as it happens, via the institute.He first ran into her backstage after his winning performance at the trumpet competition. “I thought I was about to faint, because I thought I was seeing things,” he said. She told him she’d made everyone in the dressing room stop talking during his set; she’d loved his playing. Then she asked who his favorite artists were. “I was like: You,” Akinmusire said. “And she’s like, ‘Yeah, I thought so!’” Mitchell guessed the exact tracks of hers that he liked best, including his very favorite, “Jericho.” (She includes Akinmusire in an appendix titled “Stuff Joni Likes or Even Loves” in Michelle Mercer’s book “Will You Take Me as I Am: Joni Mitchell’s ‘Blue’ Period.” He is near the top of the list, between “some Dylan” and Friedrich Nietzsche.)Soon after moving to Los Angeles, he reached out to her. They started spending afternoons together, taking rides in his Honda Civic to pick up Italian food or playing music at her place. Akinmusire began to see a future for himself that might exist both in and outside of jazz.As we spoke I noticed him using “creative music” more often than jazz. “Creative is one thing that it has to be for me. And the other thing is beautiful,” he said. “I really believe in creativity, I believe in innovation, I believe in submitting to something higher than yourself.”He has been thinking about how to bring this ethic into his teaching, especially at a titular jazz institute. “When we’re teaching jazz history, maybe we should start from current day,” he said, looking for anyone who’s “creating creative music.” This would mean taking jazz out of its historical packaging, and paying attention to where contemporary ears are at — while also challenging them.He envisioned a class that might invite students to hear Noname’s new album, “Sundial,” and dissect its component parts. “Starting from something like that, and walking it back to Louis Armstrong, really incrementally,” he said. “I think it would allow younger people to feel some type of ownership, like they can relate to this music.” More