Kamasi Washington - Albert Hall - BBC Proms

Kamasi Washington - Albert Hall - 30-08-16 - BBC Prom

Going to the Proms was a new experience for me, so i was initially bewildered by the crowds of students sitting in groups having picnics and jolly times, around the rear of the Albert Hall. I soon realised they were queuing for the £6 standing tickets when the doors opened and a civilised charge developed. Our seats in the stalls were superb, as was the sound. Ive never heard a piano 'ping' in such a pure, vibrant way. As my friend remarked, Brandon Coleman looked like he was loving every minute playing such a concert quality instrument. He could hardly wipe the smile off his face, and he stole the show in several numbers.
Accompanying two drummers, double bass player Miles Mosley was effortless, funky and refined; forever driving the groove, he performed two astonishing solos that you had to witness to believe. The main players - Kamasi on sax, his father Rickey on flute, Ryan Porter on trombone, were superb, and the orchestra and choir were used to boost the sound to epic proportions with regularity. No trumpet ? So what ! But the repetitive nature of the ascending octaves of "Aahs" from the choir did have me wondering if Spock and Captain Kirk would appear and try "to boldly go" somewhere cosmic like Proxima Centauri , or even higher, the packed out upper circle. Kamasi's new song was entitled "Space Travellers Lullaby" so I do wonder if they have a Star Trek box set on the tour bus that sends them all to sleep!
Some of the City of Birmingham orchestra's arrangements were magnificent and raised the level of musicality to new heights, conducted by Jules Buckley. The concert ended with a terrific,  jazz funk number, which had a ever building structure that threatened to raise the roof when both drummers went into full attack mode. The encore followed in the same vein, leaving the soul searching and chin scratching numbers from earlier on fading in the memory. "Henrietta" was sung by the sparingly used female vocalist Patrice Quinn, whose mimes of guitar playing and reaching to heaven in apparent ecstasy were best ignored. Kamasi is a sax virtuoso who seems right at home leading 50 or more musicians in all sorts of genres. Dont be confused by the African tutu attire and wild hair, this dude can write and play ! I will be off to my local record shop to buy "The Epic" asap.

The following is info about Kamasi lifted from his website.


At the age of 13, Kamasi Washington started a lifelong quest discovering the many wonders of music. One night, his father left his soprano saxophone lying on the piano. Kamasi, filled with curiosity for all the beauty he heard from the instrument, picked up his father’s horn. Even though he didn’t know anything about the saxophone – in fact, never even touched one – he played Wayne Shorter’s composition “Sleeping Dancer Sleep On,” his favorite song at the time.
At the prestigious Hamilton High School Music Academy, within two years, Kamasi earned the lead tenor saxophone chair in the top jazz ensemble. At the same time, Kamasi joined the Multi School Jazz Band (MSJB) where he reunited with several childhood friends who were pursuing their passion for music. During his senior year of high school, Kamasi formed his first band, “The Young Jazz Giants,” with childhood friends including Ronald Bruner, Stephen Bruner and Cameron Graves. After high school, Kamasi received a full scholarship to study ethnomusicology at UCLA, where he explored many of the non-western musical cultures around the world. During the summer after his freshman year, Kamasi recorded his first album with “The Young Jazz Giants” to spread new sounds of jazz all around the country. In his second year at UCLA, Kamasi went on his first national tour with the west coast hip-hop legend Snoop Dogg. Later that year, Kamasi joined the orchestra of one of his biggest heroes, Gerald Wilson, and later went on his first international tour with R&B legend Raphael Saadiq.
Over the years, Kamasi has performed and recorded with many of his musical heroes from various genres, including Gerald Wilson, McCoy Tyner, Freddie Hubbard, Kenny Burrell, George Duke, Lauryn Hill, Jeffrey Osborne, Mos Def, Quincy Jones, Stanley Clark, Harvey Mason and Chaka Khan. Kamasi’s own band “The Next Step” is a modern spin on a big band, which includes two drummers, two upright bass players, keyboard players, three horns players, a pianist, and a vocalist. In addition, Kamasi is part of a west coast musical collective called the “West Coast Get Down.”
Most recently, Kamasi worked on Kendrick Lamar’s acclaimed 2015 album “To Pimp A Butterfly.” On May 5th, Kamasi released his groundbreaking solo album “The Epic” on the trend-setting record label Brainfeeder. “The Epic” is a 172-minute, triple-disc masterpiece, featuring Kamasi’s ten-piece band “The Next Step” along with a full string orchestra and full choir. “The Epic” debuted #1 on several iTunes Jazz charts, including the US, Canada, Australia, Russia and UK.

France 2016 - how to spend over a grand on beaches, beetles and nervous breakdowns

The plan ; pick up the car from Nice airport, drive to Cannes, a coupla nights in a four star hotel and then on to Avignon and four nights in Airbnb flat.Ambitious ? hmm maybe. Expensive? definitely. Stressful? Ha ha, what do you reckon?
We arrive at Hertz desk at about 9pm, Ten minutes earlier we stepped onto Nice runway, the warm air hits you like a giant hair dryer is blowing from Libya. No queue.
The nice fella has my Citroen C1 all prepped and ready to go. We have gone through the prelims, having a laugh, until the lorry attack comes up and he declares they should all be killed. OK, bit harsh, i will forget as I bowl down the peage in a few minutes time. But ... he wants one last thing, E400 for a deposit.
"Ive already paid all that " I declare with confidence.
"No, you must pay this and get it back when you return the car".
"OK" - what the hell me thinks.
The card doesnt work. OMG !
"We try E250 " he says.
Thats a bit odd I think. Again no dice from the pay machine, and he declares the credit card company want to keep my card. He steps away from the desk with my card in hand.
"Hang on, everything is booked with that card, give it back, s'il vous plais".

He agrees. Phew. We try everything, I cant come up with enough euros via credit card. Cash? non. Debit card? "Non, non !" accompanied by a super en francais tut and semi-guffaw.
"So what now?"
"I cannot give you the car, monsieur". Everything unravels at speed.
I return to JK, with the bad news. Its now 9.40pm and the last bus to Cannes goes in 5 minutes.
We have to find another way. We arrive at about midnight at the underwhelming hotel.
4 stars my arse. Money has changed hands somewhere, or the hotel has gone to shit since that award.
The next day is spent sorting this screw up. I pay more funds into the credit card account and speak to a chap who denies they have requested the card be confiscated. It was refused due to insufficient funds.
"Hmmm," I think outloud. "That little shit at Hertz was trying it on.."
The chap thinks it will take a working day at least for the funds to clear. JK is having a nervous breakdown while i try to listen to the fella and ignore her increasing volume of fury.
"Let me speak to him, now !"
"No, shut up, go away.."
"What?"
"No not you"
"If your wife thinks it will be quicker by online transfer, fine, you can try..."
"Ok thanks awfully".
"Why does this always happen when we try to rent a car?" she pleads, in full meltdown mode.
Is there a culture of rip and rinse around here ? Possibly.
Cannes is pretentious and souless. We visit Mougins, the pretty but super expensive hilltop village where Picasso spent some his best years. We are told there is no chance of seeing the villa. It is privately owned, as is La Californie, the large villa he owned in Cannes. I am happy to leave for Avignon, taking the coast road westward.Its magical and we stop at Theole-sur-mer, where I have a fabulous swim and chat to some Brits on the floating raft they put out. In the distance is a superyacht called Casino Royale. I wonder who is onboard? Broccoli? err, cant think of anyone else. The sea is azur, warm, clean and sweet.
Later I see my friends in the cafe.

"Did you get stung ?"
"What, no"
"My daughter has a red swelling all up her leg, I got one on my arm, it feels like a red hot poker ..."
Blimey, the Med isnt quite the heavenly water it appears to be.
Even the jellyfish are out to get us Brits.

We arrive in Avignon late. The host is genuinely 'sympat' about it. The flat is fine.We settle in to relax and let the stress wash away. Until I start to boil. Its 9pm and its so hot I begin to have my own, personal meltdown - literally. There must be a fan? Looking at the bed, I notice the thick winter  duvet. OMG, you have got to be kidding. My mind swings to a scene on The Bridge on the River Kwai, probably because its on the TV, dubbed into French, like everything. Alec Guinness emerges from a tin shack on the riverbank, and marches in a robot stomp to the camp torturer-in-chief. Christ, imagine that , 10 minutes under that duvet would give me the screaming ab-dabs. Days baking in that tin thing would be like being in an oven without water. They made 'em tough back then.
I wasnt impressed by Avignon.How can a bridge that ends half way across a wide river, have a song written and sung about it? Sur le Pont D'Avignon, on y dancer, on y dancer ! They dance on the Bridge at Avignon do they? Oh? Really? Not when I was there , they didnt,  (Frere) Jacques !They should change the title to the demi Pont d'Avignon , or the Pont to Nowhere..And then it should say one takes selfies, not dances.
 It was 35c in the day. We baked, tous le temps.

 

 The only relief  was to be found at the local piscine where I went through the familiar French ritual  of humiliation of pasty Englishmen.
"Non monsieur, you cannot go in without, how do you say, ze hat. "
"Oh, I didnt know that" I lied, I have been through this before, and I knew what was going to happen after I had bought and donned a women's shower cap.
"Oh monsieur, non non, " the tutting noise ensues.
"You cannot go in ze water with these ....." he points at my swimming shorts.
"Oh FFS, They are swimming trunks, look" I show the net lining.
"We give you some..."he ignores my pleas like I must be a complete idiot, departs and returns with some black speedos. They are actually not as bad as the revolting, ancient pair I had been given in the same circumstances in Metz. The  thought of the number of horrible appendages and orifices that had been in that pair of speedos still gives me the nighttime sweats.
So elated was I to get away without total humiliation that I did a length of such superhuman power speed and grace, even Phelps or Spitz might not have laughed at my ragged crawl. Blimey, swimming, its great.
They do have a fabulous spray at the outdoor Avignon cafes which cools you every ten seconds with a fine mist. Good idea, works well, until you have to go somewhere else. Like the Palais des Papes, an ancient building which has a great view. Only problem is, you are so hot and tired from climbing the steps you cannot enjoy it. My mind started longing for a shower cap, speedos and pee taking Frenchmen. Anything, just let me in the water again !
We go to Aix-en-Provence - what a fantastically buzzing place to spend an evening. We had been to Camp des Milles, which had been used as an internment and deportation camp in WW2. It had been set up by Vichy France to imprison artistic types, like Max Ernst and Feuchtwanger, the German writer. It is so easy to imagine 38,000 prisoners crammed into the freezing and drafty warehouse. Unfortunately the amazing pictures produced in there are now housed elsewhere.

On to Saint-Remy-de-Provence where Van Gogh spent some of his last months in the asylum, This is another beautiful Provencal town where sipping citron presse and watching the world go by is one of life's joys. The building where Van Gogh recuperated having chopped off his ear is well preserved. The gardens have large scale copies of the wonderful paintings Vincent executed in this miraculously productive time. The persimmon trees still survive; the vibrant yellow scenes of the threshers resting and the solitary harvester scything the corn are easily imagined, as elements like the stone walls and distant hills (Les Alpilles) can still be seen. The bedroom he stayed in looked like the famous scene from the yellow house in Arles, and the bathroom where he got the water treatment has two baths, one with an apparatus to hold the head up and body down. According to the film Creation, Darwin was treated with this bombardment of water as well - why would that do you any good?
One night we saw an amazing art and music event at a cave in Les Baux de Provence. Wow, the huge space was filled with projections of works by Klimt, Egon Scheile, Da Vinci and Michelangelo, all accompanied by a booming classical soundtrack. What a visual and sensual treat. This pic shows you some of the audience milling about in the man made limestone cave. I suppose the white walls that remain are perfect to receive projection, and the acoustics are another fortuitous gift from the past.

The French tour ends as it began, in calamity. We leave too little time to negotiate the traffic on the way to Nimes airport and miss the flight. OMG. Thats another E300 down the swanny river. No wonder the song is about dancing, the French must love us tourists, they do a jig every time another sucker goes through the lax customs border. My suspicions they are rinsing everybody they can are reinforced when we see 3 girls nearly get fleeced E33 by a bus driver. Its fabulous in Provence, just be on guard.

France 2016 - chucking euros into the Rhone while the French do a jig

France 2016 - how to spend over a grand on beaches, beetles and nervous breakdowns

The plan ; pick up the car from Nice airport, drive to Cannes, a coupla nights in a four star hotel and then on to Avignon and four nights in Airbnb flat.Ambitious ? hmm maybe. Expensive? definitely. Stressful? Ha ha, what do you reckon?
We arrive at Hertz desk at about 9pm, Ten minutes earlier we stepped onto Nice runway, the warm air hits you like a giant hair dryer is blowing from Libya. No queue.
The nice fella has my Citroen C1 all prepped and ready to go. We have gone through the prelims, having a laugh, until the lorry attack comes up and he declares they should all be killed. OK, bit harsh, Lets forget it as I bowl down the peage in 5 minutes time. But !!!!! he wants one last thing, E400 for a deposit.
"Ive already paid all that " I declare with confidence.
"No, you must pay this and get it back when you return the car".
"OK" - what the hell me thinks.
The card doesnt work. OMG !
"We try E250 " he says.
Thats a bit dodgy I think.Again no dice from the machine, and he declares the credit card company want to keep my card.He steps away from the desk with my card in hand.
"Hang on, everything is booked with that card, give it back, s'il vous plais".
He agrees. Phew. We try everything, I cant find the money.
"So what now?"
"I cannot give you the car, monsieur". Everything unravels at speed.
I return to JK, with the bad news. Its now 9.40pm and the last bus to Cannes goes in 5 minutes.
We have to find another way. We arrive at about midnight at the underwhelming hotel, at least it has a balcony

4 stars ? my arse. Money has changed hands somewhere, or the hotel has gone to shit since that award.
The next day is spent sorting this FUBAR .
Cannes is pretentious and souless. I am happy to leave for Avignon, taking the coast road westward. Its a magical road, constantly swinging left and right and right again. There is nowhere to park until we reach Thiol where I have a fabulous swim on a mysteriously empty beach.I chat to some Brits on the floating raft they put out. In the distance is a superyacht called Casino Royale. I wonder who is onboard? Broccoli, err, cant think of anyone else. The sea is azur, warm, clean and sweet as.
Later I see my friends in the cafe.

"Did you get stung ?"
"What, no"
"My daughter has a red swelling all up her leg, I got one on my arm, it feels like a red hot poker ..."
Blimey, the Med isnt quite the heavenly water it appears to be.
"Thats why its so deserted here. But how do the locals know? Is there a sign ? " No-one knows.
We arrive in Avignon late. The host is genuinely sympat about it. The flat is fine.We settle in to relax and let the stress wash away. Until I start to boil. Its 9pm and its so hot. There must be a fan, and looking at the bed, I see a thick winter duvet .OMG, you have got to be kidding. My mind swings to a scene on The Bridge on the River Kwai, probably because its on the TV, dubbed into French, like everything. Alec Guinness emerges from a tin shack after days cooking in a oven, and marches in a robot stomp to the camp torturer-in-chief. Christ, imagine that , 10 minutes under that duvet would give me the screaming ab-dabs. Days baking in that tin thing...they made 'em tough in those days.

We go to Aix-en-Provence - what a fantastically buzzing place to spend an evening. St Remy where Van Gogh went to the asylum, we visited the very bedroom he stayed in, and the bathroom where he got the water treatment - its so atmospheric.
Then we saw an amazing art and music event at a cave in Les Baux de Provence. Wow what a visual treat. I wasnt impressed by Avignon. how can a bridge that just ends half way across a wide river, have a song about it? They should change the title to the Pont over the Orwell, or London, Tower whatever.
We leave too little time to get to Nimes airport. We miss the flight. OMG. Thats another E300 down the swany river. No wonder the song is about dancing, the French must love us tourists, they do a jig every time another sucker goes through the easy customs border. Theres a feeling I get that they are rinsing everybody they can. We saw 3 girls nearly get fleeced E33 by a bus driver. Its fabulous in Provence, just be on guard.