Gig Review: Alexander Flood Goes Old School Acid Jazz and French House and Drum N Bass and Most of the Sweaty, Packed Room Loves the Absolute Living Shit Out of It!

Remember when there used to be gig reviews? I do. I used to write them, before the newspaper stopped caring about such things. I’m bringing them back!

Wellington Jazz Festival: Alexander Flood

San Fran, Wellington

Thursday, October 17

First up, I’ll say that I love Alexander Flood. His two albums so far — with a new one on the way very soon — have been firm favourites. He’s an Australian drummer with an eye on the dance floor and two ears listening always for ways in which to punctuate the groove. He’s got chops galore, but he plays in a most musical way, allowing his band as much space to shine, if not more; solos for them rather than him. He’s got a Tony Allen-propulsion and some of the sharpness of the way Bernard Purdie comes at a hi-hat. It is always good, and I was thrilled to finally get to see him live, also pleased with the Jazz Festival for enabling his New Zealand live debut.

You would, after that, be sensing a BUT. And there’s a big one.

Alexander Flood, for me, live at the Jazz Festival, suffered for the comparison to the previous nights’ opening gambit, the legendary Marcus Miller, which I reviewed here:

Gig Review: Marcus Miller Opens Jazz Fest with Subtle Thriller!

Where is the comparison, you say? These are two different people doing two different things on two different nights, right? And yes, of course. But the comparison is forced via curation. A festival is an umbrella, a box, a platform. If an anthology of poetry contains poems that strike you down, and poems that slightly bore you, they are judged together as a work between the covers. And so it is with festivals — it might be apples and oranges, but an orange can taste rather sour if you’ve just an apple so crisp.

I say this, because it’s in the domain of the reviewer. I spent years having the NZ arts festival/s getting all pissed off with me for raving one day, and then cursing the act the next. I had no consistency, they said. Well, that’s actually not true. My loyalty was to the process. Not the festival, nor the act.

I’m at pains to explain this because Alexander Flood was profoundly not shit. In fact he had the venue pumped and swinging. He and his quartet came out and hit straight into it and it was happy-happy joy-joy for 90 odd minutes. They took us back to the early 2000s and it felt very St. Germain, and a bit Llorca too. There was French house and old school “live” drum ‘n’ bass. This was jazz as a springboard. This was white jazz. And there is nothing wrong with that whatsoever. It was a vibe. And the things I loved about it — beyond Flood’s sublime playing and the way he and his bass player locked in so effortlessly and seemed to move as one — was actually audience-watching; seeing how into it everyone was.

I applaud the festival for bringing him and for creating this environment. An international musician, up close, in a venue that’s far more personal than a theatre with seats. This was a sweaty bar gig. At a price punters could afford — you could have gone in with no previous knowledge of the act, and, with change out of $40, you’d have had the night of your life.

This review is far more about me than the music — but that’s because I’m allowed to write about whatever I want this days, and in whatever way I want. And I’m so glad I got to see Flood do his thing, the Adelaide-born percussionist is effortlessly brilliant.

But with more jazz flute than even Ron Burgundy could shake his stake at (or to), it was far too often in one groove, in one place — for me. Others probably could not get enough of it. And wanted more and more, even after the final bell (of the cymbal) had been wrung.

But I had a very good time watching very good musicians and only wanted more of something else, or more variation within what they were doing. It was perfectly good. But never quite as great as I wanted it to be. And that’s a hard review to write. Which is why you’ve probably found this a tough review to read.