A solo performance is a curious situation whose stark nature treads the borders of invitation, freedom and discomfort. In other words, without a net (i.e. a partner to both bounce ideas off or redirect the attention as you regroup, mechanical looping elements to riff over) the performer must mentally gird himself with "I can do this" and "how long can I keep this up?"
Okay. Perhaps this lack of confidence didn't enter bassist Jason Roebke's mind before the 30-minute improvisation that comprises his first solo CD, In the Interval: he studied with Roscoe Mitchell, has played with the Japanese masters of guarded sound (Taku Sugimoto, Toshimaru Nakamura, Tetuzi Akiyama) and actively works in ten collectives, including a duo with dancer Ayako Kato. And, based on Roebke's relationship with his instrument and the acoustics, he isn't alone but a vessel of subtle intrigue and multiplicity via patience and an interim between ideas. A disciple of "silence" is sexy, Roebke leaves a 40-second space between the first and second notes of Part One. The hiatus is dramatic and the definition of "pregnant pause"; it grabs the listener, forcing him to shake out whatever he was doing and move in closer as would a yogi's instruction of "empty yourself" during the first part of class. Perfect — and that's only the first gesture.
Roebke builds up the next several minutes with similar anticipation. Gently tapping and rubbing strings, he crawls into an exploration of slides whose heart is more finger detritus than harmonic or formal progression. Again more repose, but the atoms begin to bond into a polystylistic mass that is at once lyrical and textural, full of hard bop walking lines and pentatonic scales (the Asian type); at one point Roebke catches himself plunking out "Oh What a Beautiful Morning", waits a bit, then returns to the melody and punctuates the last note with a throaty giggle (note: his huffs and hums are an integral character in the success of the piece); the appearance of squeals and glitches from a Crackle Box (a small, circuit-bending synth / loudspeaker) somehow makes perfect sense amidst the exacting chaos. Now simmering, the coda (the six-minute Part Two) is the violent outburst of a once-reverent kid at home after too much church. Sweet replaces rowdy as Roebke bashes his bass into a simultaneous counterpoint of aria against rattles, croaks and strangled harmonics.
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