The larger an artist's public persona becomes, the more expectation it generates. And expectation is often hard to live up to. Cassandra Wilson's interpretation of  Miles Davis' music during a six-night stand at Lincoln. Center was a New York event that had many preshow tongues wagging.

The match seemed righteous; Miles could make small turns of phrase seem like  proclamations. He dug the sparseness of solos, and believed that appreciating silence was better than blowing halfhearted lines. So it was disappointing to hear Wilson lead an oversized ensemble that made a point of  filling up all the nooks and crannies with  superfluous wads of sound. And it was frustrating to see that she acted like just another member of the entourage, rather than the director of its musical flow.
It was a case of over-orchestrating. With three percussionists, two bassists, two vibraphone players, a pair of guitarists and a four-member string section that was  buffeted by french and english horn players, the band was a fully packed ship that
drifted toward the shoals almost  immediately after raising anchor. Putting everybody to work simultaneously set the stage for tempests of confusion. Often, three or four ideas did battle at once.  Tempos clashed, melodies quarreled,  textures bickered. As a result, simplicity  walked the plank. The Tuesday evening of the show began  in the right direction, with the music built from the ground up. Rhythm has long been essential to Wilson's oeuvre, and the  synchrofunk that propelled "There's A Boat  That's Leaving Soon For New York" offered  a spry gait that echoed the city's multi-culti  vibe. Percussionists Mino Cinelu, Jeffrey  Haynes and Perry Wilson interacted fluidly as the strings of Quartette Indigo added color with unusual voicings.
 Wilson's voice leapt above it all, providing an irrepressible auspiciousness.  But as the tune played out, no real ensemble rapport was ever achieved; the drummers  were tentative, and the piece never transcended sketchiness. That was also the case with "All Blues," which followed in the form of a sideways samba. Wilson scatted  her way through much of it; but instead of  her lines being a lasso, they were mere threads, unable to stitch  the swirl of motifs that spiraled loosely in  the air. Solos came and went, but Regina Carter's hoedown, Dave Holland's geometry  and pianist Eric Lewis' tinkling didn't prove  to be strong enough to fasten the fragments, either.

 By the time arranger Akua Dixon's cranky string charts for "It Never Entered My Mind" began bumping into Wilson's sultry vocal, it was obvious that this was a  troubled set. The band operated without  natural cohesion. The fact that the leader left  the stage for Quartette Indigo's fumble  through "So What" tacitly suggested that  she, too, was dubious of the action at hand. Upon return, Wilson closed the first half  with the program's title tune, "Traveling Miles," a piece that nuzzled the Dark Prince  behind the ear, and reminded listeners just how effective a writer she can be.

 A couple of gorgeous moments in the  second set threatened to make up for the
gaffes in the first. The smaller the ensemble  became, the more eloquent it sounded. With  some players sequestered, and everyone  unified around a lilting groove, "Tutu" became the most convincing music of the evening. Marcus Miller's vamp tune, which sounded drab as the title cut to Davis' 1986  disc, was an ideal vehicle for Wilson's  swampy blues approach, as well as the earthy marimba sound of Cecilia Smith. Here, the singer was in command, her voice intrepid. Stripping away even more players, the show hit its zenith: a trio interpretation of "`Round  Midnight" that allowed Wilson's voice to seep through the room accompanied by Holland and guest pianist Rodney Kendrick.

 The emotional depth conjured was the kind  of artistry that makes a listener swoon, and  the level of interplay between the threesome--especially the mercurial accompaniment of Kendrick--underscored  what was missing throughout the rest of the  concert: namely, accord. File it under overreach: an attempt at  momentousness fractured into disarray.  "Seven Steps To Heaven," "It Never  Entered My Mind," "Time After--Time"  several tunes contained ideas that  were individually inspired, but added up to  nada. Some of those ideas blew about like  tumbleweeds, with no hint of a discernible destination; it made for a subtle sense of  mania coming from the stage. During her brief salutation, Wilson mentioned that the  program was going to cull pieces from a  variety of the trumpeter's stylistic eras.  "Miles mixed it up, so we're going to, too."  With a wildly haphazard show, she and her  ensemble certainly did that, but not in the  way they had planned.
 

source:  Down Beat, March 1998 v65 n3 p68(1).
Author:  Jim Macnie
COPYRIGHT 1998 Maher Publications