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  • richardmitnick 8:51 AM on April 11, 2018 Permalink | Reply
    Tags: , , , The New Yorker   

    From The New Yorker: “Cecil Taylor and the Art of Noise” 

    new-yorker-bloc-rea-irvin
    Rea Irvin

    The New Yorker

    April 10, 2018
    Alex Ross

    Cecil Taylor

    In 1993, I briefly met the composer György Ligeti, one of the towering figures of the past hundred years of music. As often happens when one is in the company of greats, I seized the opportunity to ask an idiotic question: “What do you think of Cecil Taylor?” Ligeti possessed a comprehensive knowledge of the world’s musical traditions, including jazz. But he had little more than a vaguely positive impression of Taylor. I failed to hit whatever interpretive jackpot I had been expecting.

    Ligeti died in 2006, at the age of eighty-three. Taylor died last week, at eighty-nine. In truth, the two had little in common, other than a propensity for seething, maximalist textures. What united them in my mind was how they guided me as brilliant beacons at a time when I was discovering the full extent of twentieth-century musical possibility. We tend to think of genres as distinct land masses, with oceans of taste separating them. Yet, as I observed when I wrote about Taylor and Sonic Youth, in 1998, there exist polar regions where the distinctions tend to blur—namely, the zone that is often labelled “avant” or “experimental” in used-record stores. When dissonance and complexity build to a sufficient degree, works of classical, jazz, or rock descent can sound more like one another than like their parent genres.

    I grew up with classical music and came late to rock, pop, and jazz. I took the northern passage between genres, and Taylor was, somewhat perversely, the first jazz figure who caught my ear—perversely because he had only one foot in jazz, as conventionally defined. The pianist and composer Ethan Iverson, commenting on a 1973 trio recording, writes that Jimmy Lyons and Andrew Cyrille, Taylor’s partners on this occasion, “sound like jazz musicians.” Taylor, however, “didn’t sound like that. He had another kind of poetry, some other kind of sheer strength of will.” The New Yorker’s Richard Brody observes that, even on the début album Jazz Advance, from 1956, Taylor had “left chordal jazz behind and spun musical material of his own choosing (whether harmonic, motivic, melodic, or rhythmic) into kaleidoscopic cascades of sound.” The question of whether Taylor was “really jazz” was once a hot topic in the jazz world, and he elicited a few sharp putdowns from fellow-musicians. “Total self-indulgent bullshit” was Branford Marsalis’s notorious judgment on Taylor’s modernist philosophy in the Ken Burns documentary “Jazz.” Miles Davis said, of a Taylor record, “Take it off! That’s some sad shit, man.” Such is the fate of the outsider in any genre.

    For me, Taylor was the untouchable emperor of the art of noise. I first saw him in 1989, at the Western Front, a club in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Also on the bill was the David Gilmore Trio; Marvin Gilmore, Jr., David Gilmore’s father, owned the club, which was best known for its reggae nights. Several shaggy-haired patrons audibly expressed their bewilderment as the performance unfolded; it turned out that they had come expecting to hear David Gilmour, of Pink Floyd. I don’t remember much in detail about Taylor’s set, in which he was joined by William Parker, on bass, and Gregg Bendian, on drums. I do recall that for the first five or ten minutes the music was dense, intense, driving, ferocious—and then it started. Some frenzy of figuration under Taylor’s hummingbird hands set off a collective pandemonium that became purely physical in effect: I felt at once pressed backward and pulled in. It remains one of the most visceral listening experiences of my life.

    Taylor always shunned labels. He often used “jazz” in virtual quotation marks, even though he recognized it as his home tradition. He was also wary of the word “composer.” A graduate of the New England Conservatory, he was rigorously trained in classical composition and performance, and could fire off precise references to Webern, Xenakis, and, yes, Ligeti. But he disliked the idea of the composer as a mastermind controlling every aspect of music behind the scenes. In 1989, Steve Lake wrote, of Taylor: “In a dismissive tone, he can make ‘composer’ sound like ‘dictator’ or ‘megalomaniac.’ ‘I don’t think I’d ever want to be considered a composer’ (accompanying the word with an expression of acute distaste).” In this Taylor was akin to his idol, Duke Ellington, who resisted European archetypes of composition and sought to create his own jazz-based African-American version of it. Ellington and Taylor were vastly different: the one suave, aristocratic, buoyant, popular; the other irregular, anarchic, confrontational, anti-commercial. But Taylor emulated Ellington’s way of composing with and through his groups. Taylor would give his collaborators notated material, yet they had the freedom to express themselves through the written notes or abandon them altogether.

    Taylor could indeed create atonal music on the fly, as if he were improvising a Charles Ives sonata or a Stockhausen Klavierstück. At his most diabolical, he sounds like several of Conlon Nancarrow’s hyperkinetic player-piano rolls playing simultaneously. Those splatters of notes are hardly random, however. He pummels the piano in different registers and then repeats the gesture with startling precision. His hands always go where his brain directs them to go. And he would return to tonal groundings after long spells in a gravity-free environment. Something I particularly loved about his recordings and performances—I saw him a handful of times in the nineties and the aughts—were the grand, mournful, minor-mode themes that would periodically loom out of the harmonic fog. They struck me as fundamentally Romantic in contour—perhaps a bit Brahmsian, for lack of a better point of reference. I have stitched together a few of them, from 3 Phasis, Winged Serpent, and Alms / Tiergarten (Spree), which you can listen to here.

    The last example comes from a set of eleven CDs released by the Free Music Production label, documenting Taylor’s residency in Berlin in the summer of 1988. Alms, a two-hour marathon featuring a seventeen-piece group called the Cecil Taylor European Orchestra, included such avant-jazz luminaries as Evan Parker, Peter Brötzmann, Peter Kowald, and Han Bennink. The music moves in like a weather system, a slow-gathering, all-engulfing storm of sound. On the FMP recording, the orchestra is plainly working from a score and periodically settles on a particular figure, though crisp unisons are not the point. (Taylor himself often ignores the big patterns he has set in motion and dances deliriously against the grain.) I witnessed the same mighty convergence at a live show at Iridium, in 2005, with a fifteen-piece band. As the music swayed between quasi-symphonic utterances and every-which-way melees, it presented a totality, a sprawling structure built in real time.

    As Iverson says, no one else played like Taylor, and no one will. Nonetheless, he leaves a potent legacy for the ever-growing body of music that unfolds in the spaces between jazz and classical traditions, between European and African-American cultures, between composition and improvisation. With Taylor, the refusal of category, the resistance to description, was rooted in an attitude of defiance that seemed variously personal, cultural, and political. At a famously contentious discussion at Bennington College in 1964, Taylor said: “The jazz musician has taken Western music and made of it what he wanted to make of it.” As a queer black man—he rejected the label “gay”—he experienced racism in the wider world and homophobia within jazz. As the purveyor of music that most people found incomprehensible, he encountered a disdain that frequently boiled over into irrational hatred. His imperious indifference followed the example of the European masters who looked nothing like him, and whose company he joins.

    See the full article here .

    Please help promote STEM in your local schools.

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    Please help promote STEM in your local schools.

    STEM Icon

    Stem Education Coalition

    John Schaefer


    For new music by living composers

    newsounds.org from New York Public Radio


    https://www.wnyc.org/
    93.9FM
    https://www.wqxr.org/
    105.9FM
    http://www.thegreenespace.org/

    For great Jazz

    88.3FM http://wbgo.org/

    WPRB 103.3FM

    Dan Buskirk Spinning Jazz Mondays 11:00AM-1:00PM
    Will Constantine Jr, Blues Bop and Beyond Thursdays 11:00-2:00 featuring Latin Jazz
    Jerry Gordon Serenade to a Cookoo Frdays 11:00AM-2:00PM with Jerry’s Room at 1:00Pm
    Jeannie Becker Sunday Jazz 10:00AM-1:00Pm


    Please visit The Jazz Loft Project based on the work of Sam Stephenson
    Please visit The Jazz Loft Radio project from New York Public Radio

     
  • richardmitnick 7:47 PM on March 23, 2018 Permalink | Reply
    Tags: , , , , , , , , Snoop Dog, , The New Yorker, , ,   

    From The New Yorker: “The Genuine Vulnerability of Snoop Dogg’s Gospel Album” 

    new-yorker-bloc-rea-irvin
    Rea Irvin

    The New Yorker

    March 22, 2018
    Amanda Petrusich

    1
    It makes sense, on a narrative level, that a man who has spent much of his life deviating and inventing would, at forty-six, become interested in expressions of redemption and forgiveness. Photograph by Kevin Winter / BET / Getty.

    In Southern California, in the early nineteen-nineties, hip-hop was mutating in heavy and thrilling ways. When the Long Beach rapper Snoop Dogg, then known as Snoop Doggy Dogg, released Doggystyle, his major-label début, in 1993, he was plainly positioned to become the next great American m.c. He had just turned twenty-two. In 2013, on the occasion of the record’s twentieth anniversary, he admitted to Vibe, “No one expected me to be good.” He came by his virtuosity honestly. “I was just a young, dusty rapper,” he said. “I didn’t know how to talk in front of cameras, I didn’t know how to articulate. I just was dope at making music.”

    Snoop was a key progenitor of G-funk, a subset of gangster rap that leans heavily on funk samples, and features a slinking, almost lackadaisical vocal. In 1992, he was a guest on Deep Cover, Dr. Dre’s first single after the dissolution of N.W.A. It’s hard to describe his presence on the chorus: “Cause it’s one-eight-seven on the undercover cop,” he pipes up, as if offering some irrefutable explanation. His delivery is sing-songy and nearly furtive, which makes the lyric sound more like a taunt than a threat. (Per California’s penal code, a one-eight-seven is a murder.) Dr. Dre has a deep and abundant voice; when he raps, it’s like getting artfully walloped with a large, blunt instrument. Snoop’s approach is softer—steady, eternally unbothered—but no less menacing.

    n the intervening decades, Snoop has built a multitudinous and unprecedented career. He invented a lexicon, mostly by adding the suffix –izzle to ordinary words, rendering them more delightful (“Is Dr. Drizzay, so lizzay and plizzay / With D-O-double-Gizzay?” he asks on The Shiznit, from Doggystyle), and indulged in flagrant, grinning marijuana use long before weed was recognized (in some places) as benign. In 2001, he wrote a pornographic film, Snoop Dogg’s Doggystyle, which was directed by Larry Flynt. Though his early work could be dark (in 1993, while recording Doggystyle, he was arrested in connection with the death of Philip Woldemariam, a member of a rival gang; he was defended by Johnnie Cochran, and later acquitted), Snoop quickly revealed a joking, more impish side, as evidenced by the various television programs (Doggy Fizzle Televizzle, Dogg After Dark, and, most notably, Snoop Dogg’s Father Hood) he hosted or starred in throughout the aughts. Without exception, he played the genial and mischievous goof.

    In 2005, he founded the Snoop Youth Football League, which is now the largest youth football organization in Southern California. The idea was to give disenfranchised or disadvantaged kids a path to something else: “We went on a mission to try to stop the violence by going to the roughest neighborhoods and grabbing these kids, coaches and ex-gang members and throwing them in the fire and saying, ‘This is what we want to do,’ ” he told Billboard. By 2010, Snoop was a mainstream mogul. He performed at the Kennedy Center, honoring the jazz pianist Herbie Hancock; he appeared in an Old Navy commercial; he narrated Planet Earth-style nature footage on Jimmy Kimmel Live (Snakes are straight assholes); hosted a VH1 show with Martha Stewart, in which they chummily prepared healthful meals for celebrity guests.

    Yet he also kept making records, many of them groundbreaking. Earlier this month, he released his sixteenth solo LP, Bible of Love. Though Snoop was once affiliated with the Nation of Islam, and, in 2012, announced his conversion to Rastafarianism (he briefly changed his name to Snoop Lion, and released a reggae record, Reincarnation), Bible of Love is a searching gospel album. It makes sense, on a narrative level, that a man who has spent much of his life deviating and inventing would, at forty-six, become interested in expressions of redemption and forgiveness.

    Bible of Love feels more like a début than anything else Snoop has done. Doggystyle was his first album by chronological measures, but Snoop was such an instinctive and studied rapper that he never sounded green or shaky. What I like about Bible of Love is how flummoxed Snoop appears. He produced the record with Lonny Bereal, and there are some expert jams on it (particularly You, featuring the gospel singer Tye Tribbett, who has also worked with Justin Timberlake, Usher, and Sting), but its wobblier moments are its most interesting. On the seven-and-a-half-minute single Words Are Few, which features a guest vocal by the gospel singer B. Slade (who previously performed as Tonex), Snoop mostly recuses himself to observe. The song begins with a confession: “There are times when I don’t wanna speak / Grab a pen, scratch your chin, make a beat. Though he’s not disavowing his previous work, a kind of submission is implied; for a rapper to release a track with a chorus that goes When my words are few is, itself, a kind of prostration. By two minutes in, he’s offering only periodic interjections. He is stepping aside, I think, to learn.

    It’s possible gospel has never been this integrated into mainstream hip-hop and pop before. Three of this decade’s most high-profile hip-hop records (Chance the Rapper’s Coloring Book, Kanye West’s The Life of Pablo, and Kendrick Lamar’s Good Kid, m.A.A.d. City) all incorporate elements of contemporary black gospel; the forty-seven-year-old gospel singer Kirk Franklin has sold many millions of records, in an era in which selling records is extraordinarily difficult. Yet Bible of Love doesn’t feel imitative or mercenary. Snoop is certainly a savvy performer and businessman, but his trajectory has always felt honest, a product of his time, place, and stature. That he is now looking for new ways to be grateful feels both decent and real.

    See the full article here .

    Please help promote STEM in your local schools.

    STEM Icon

    Stem Education Coalition

    John Schaefer


    For new music by living composers

    newsounds.org from New York Public Radio

    For great Jazz


    WPRB

    Dan Buskirk Spinning Jazz Mondays 11:00AM-1:00PM
    Will Constantine Jr, Blues Bop and Beyond Thursdays 11:00-2:00 featuring Latin Jazz
    Jerry Gordon Serenade to a Cookoo Frdays 11:00AM-2:00PM with Jerry’s Room at 1:00Pm
    Jeannie Becker Sunday Jazz 10:00AM-1:00Pm

     
  • richardmitnick 1:57 PM on March 19, 2018 Permalink | Reply
    Tags: , , , , , , , Miles Davis and John Coltrane—The Final Tour, , , , , The New Yorker, ,   

    From The New Yorker: “Listening to Miles Davis and John Coltrane’s Final Tour” 

    new-yorker-bloc-rea-irvin
    Rea Irvin

    The New Yorker

    1
    Miles Davis and John Coltrane onstage in 1960, in Chicago.
    Photograph by Ted Williams / Iconic Images / Getty

    Miles Davis January 1955 Express Newspapers Getty Image

    John Coltrane .Charles VlenCorbis

    There’s a great story behind Miles Davis and John Coltrane—The Final Tour, the sixth volume in Sony’s Bootleg Series of live recordings by Davis (it comes out March 23rd), and that story makes itself heard in the music.

    2

    In 1960, the trumpeter Miles Davis, along with his regular band, was booked to go on a concert tour in Western Europe as part of the ongoing, and internationally famous, Jazz at the Philharmonic concert series. However, at exactly that time, Coltrane, who played tenor saxophone, was preparing to leave Davis’s quintet and form his own working group. Coltrane had been a sideman with Davis on and off since 1955; they were both born in 1926, but their careers took drastically different paths. Davis was already a minor star in 1945, at the age of nineteen, when he recorded with Charlie Parker. Three years later, at twenty-two, he led a nonet, featuring intricate arrangements, that proved vastly influential. (They’re gathered under the title Birth of the Cool.)

    3
    No image credit

    Davis had a huge and significant discography as a leader by the time he hired Coltrane, an unheralded musician best known as a rarely soloing sideman, who’d never yet led a record date. With Davis, Coltrane quickly found his voice, and expanded it during a stint in 1957 with Thelonious Monk. Coltrane had led dates on several labels; recorded the influential Giant Steps, in 1959; and was ready to go out on his own.

    4
    Atlantic Records

    Davis’s group, featuring the pianist Wynton Kelly, the bassist Paul Chambers, and the drummer Jimmy Cobb—which had been a sextet for several years, featuring Cannonball Adderley’s alto sax alongside Coltrane’s tenor—was now depleted.

    6
    Miles Davis Sextet. No image credit

    Adderley left in the fall of 1959, and Coltrane was feeling his oats. On club dates, Cobb said, Coltrane “would play an hour solo himself, and we were only supposed to be on the stand for forty minutes or something.” Prior to the European tour, Coltrane told Davis that he wouldn’t join him there, and even recommended another tenor saxophonist to Davis, Wayne Shorter, who was only twenty-six. (Davis actually hired him—in 1964.) But, because Coltrane was familiar with the band’s material, Davis prevailed upon Coltrane to join him one last time for the European tour. Coltrane agreed, grudgingly; according to Cobb, Coltrane displayed his discontent throughout the tour: “He sat next to me on the bus, looking like he was ready to split at any time. He spent most of the time looking out the window and playing Oriental-sounding scales on soprano.”

    In fact, Coltrane made exemplary use of his time on that tour, working out his musical ideas more fully, audaciously, and radically than he had ever done in his previous studio recordings. Davis is in fine fettle throughout the tour; Coltrane plays with fury. As he did in American clubs, he plays longer solos (often much longer) than Davis does (not hour-long, though) and often gets much more applause than Davis does. By bringing Coltrane back into the group for this European tour, one of the band’s most prestigious showcases, Davis in effect relegated himself to the role of a sideman in his own band.

    Coltrane’s solos range from the overwhelming to the astonishing to the devastating to the outrageously playful. He developed ideas that he had been working on throughout the late fifties, ideas that took the harmonic complexities of bebop to a new level. What he had been doing in the late fifties was, essentially, playing every note of the chords that provided the tune’s harmonic structure—and when he substituted (in the classic bebop form) new chords for familiar ones he played all of those notes, too. It made for lots of notes that he played very fast, in long breaths, with a vibrato-free, hard-steely tone that led one critic of the era, Ira Gitler, to immortalize Coltrane’s style at that time as “sheets of sound.” In The Final Tour, the sound is of Coltrane ripping the sheets to shreds. He played plenty of high-velocity rushes of notes here, too, but also broke off and fragmented those long lines. He wrenched them apart with low-end blasts, mid-range cries, and high-pitched shrieks, moving away from the musical sense of notes and chords toward pure sound—a dramatic tendency that he took to ecstatic extremes with his own groups.

    Before this release, the music from the quintet’s European tour was available—exactly as the Bootleg Series suggests—through unauthorized releases. (Several of these concert recordings, including the ones in the Sony set, were officially made for radio broadcast.) They’re already familiar—mainly to fanatics trawling used-CD shops. (I’ve collected bootlegs of the tour for decades; there are about eight disks full of them, and they’re among my favorite jazz recordings.) The Final Tour offers three of the group’s concerts, including the two crucial ones from the tour. In their Paris performance, on March 21, 1960, the first night of the tour, Davis starts playing full-throated and elbows-out, and Coltrane responds by going wild, throwing down a gantlet, not to Davis or even to his audience but to himself. His performances were received as a succès de scandale. During and after several long and furious solos, members of the audience can be heard whistling (the local equivalent of booing). But there are also plenty of boisterous cheers. (I heard, anecdotally, from a friend who attended the concert, as a teen-ager, that even the passionate cognoscenti—meaning he and his friends—were Davis aficionados who came in knowing little about Coltrane but took him up as a new hero that night.)

    The next night, in Stockholm, Davis seems somewhat guarded, not struggling to keep up but wary, as if he were defending some border of musical order. By contrast, Coltrane followed his Paris outburst with some lofty philosophical playfulness, picking a pair of notes from the melody and repeating them, rocking back and forth between them as if examining their gleam in the light, working them out bit by bit, line by line, until they build to an outrageous complexity that seems to astonish even him as it rushes by.

    For that matter, the entire band is a delight. Kelly’s solos, following Coltrane’s, have a ripplingly songful, easygoing but intriguingly varied lyricism; Chambers offers a firm melodic and percussive counterpoint, and Cobb displays a rhythmic foundation that’s as foot-tappingly strong as it is polyrhythmically supple. Yet, as great and essential as The Final Tour is, its four disks tell only part of the story. I wouldn’t want to be without Coltrane’s furious outbursts from Frankfurt, Germany, the following week, or the concerts from later in the tour, in early April, when Davis seems to come out from Coltrane’s shadow, as in three tracks believed to have been recorded in Munich. By the end of the tour, Coltrane seems somewhat transfigured—his playing seems at times not appeased or tamped down but burned away to a spiritual essence, foreshadowing the mood and the content of much of his music from his own classic quartet, which finally began to coalesce in the summer of that year. As for Davis, he sought bold new musical directions as well; it took a new quintet, which he assembled in 1963-64, for him to find them.

    See the full article here .

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  • richardmitnick 5:33 PM on March 8, 2018 Permalink | Reply
    Tags: A Physically Punishing Solo-Piano Masterpiece, , , , , , , , , , , The New Yorker, ,   

    From Cantaloupe Music and the New Yorker: “A Physically Punishing Solo-Piano Masterpiece” 

    Cantaloupe Music is the recording arm of Bang On a Can, the original New Music DIY organization.

    The New Yorker

    3.8.18
    Ethan Iverson [The strongest left hand in Jazz]

    Ethan Iverson, Pianist

    Vicky Chow, Pianist

    The pianist Vicky Chow says that playing “Sonatra” is a “traumatic physical experience.” Composed by Michael Gordon, in 2004, and released on Cantaloupe Music, in two versions, one in normal tuning and one in unsettling just intonation, “Sonatra” is a spectacular addition to the piano repertoire. In 1987, Gordon helped found Bang on a Can, a celebrated New York ensemble that has produced a long list of valuable premières from artists working in the terrain of post-minimalist and experimental sounds. Yet, few of the composers associated with that milieu have been noted for their solo-piano music. Indeed, Gordon says, “When I started writing ‘Sonatra,’ I decided . . . I would probably only ever write one piano piece in my entire life.”

    “Sonatra” is a fifteen-minute perpetual-motion study that may be the culmination of a tradition of pieces that place inhuman demands on concert pianists. It’s been exactly a century since Béla Bartók composed his fearsome Op. 18 Études, the second of which is in chain thirds, just like “Sonatra.” The composer Conlon Nancarrow created maniacal keyboard music in the forties and fifties, although most people didn’t hear his piano rolls until the Nancarrow recordings became available, in the sixties and seventies. György Ligeti was inspired by both Bartók and Nancarrow in a series of famous études that began with “Désordre,” in 1985.

    “Sonatra” is a milestone of composition, but the recording is also a milestone of pianism. With a score this difficult, the performer becomes an essential collaborator. The arpeggios begin in extremis and only get harder. Tossing off one glissando is easy, but, near the end of “Sonatra,” the hundreds of glissandos in a row must nearly rub the pianist raw. One might wonder how much studio magic is present in this recording. I can verify that Chow can play it live. At a terrific recital in October, 2016, at Roulette, in Brooklyn, Chow closed with “Sonatra.” It was my first exposure to the piece and I felt it land like an unfriendly tap on the shoulder from a heavyweight boxer.

    The athletic aspects of “Sonatra” are leavened by a breezy kind of American aesthetic. The title references the famous saloon singer. (When you google “Sonatra,” the search engine asks, “Did you mean Sinatra?”) The ear can follow the charming form on first listen. There’s a cheerfully experimental approach to tuning. (Perhaps we should now listen Bartok’s Op. 18 and the Ligeti études in just intonation.) Chow’s cover photo is like that of a sardonic action hero who doesn’t take herself too seriously.

    The looping streams in “Sonatra” suggest the endless flow of binary information, music for the computer age, but the limited edition offers heavy vinyl at 45 r.p.m. with normal and skewed versions, a copy of the score, and a large cover worthy of framing. Filing the LP on my shelf gave me a rare sense of satisfaction, especially when so much of my contemporary collection is stored in the cloud. At times, it feels like the era of undisputed masterpieces is over, but it turns out that there’s still work that deserves the old-fashioned phrase from the glory days of vinyl: “An essential library item.”

    Ethan Iverson is a pianist and composer based in Brooklyn, NY, USA.


    For new music by living composers
    newsounds.org from New York Public Radio

    For great Jazz
    WPRB

    Dan Buskirk Spinning Jazz Mondays 11:00AM-1:00PM
    Will Constantine Jr, Blues Bop and Beyond Thursdays 11:00-2:00 featuring Latin Jazz
    Jerry Gordon Serenade to a Cookoo Frdays 11:00AM-2:00PM with Jerry’s Room at 1:00Pm
    Jeannie Becker Sunday Jazz 10:00AM-1:00Pm


    Please visit The Jazz Loft Project based on the work of Sam Stephenson
    Please visit The Jazz Loft Radio project from New York Public Radio

    Please help promote STEM in your local schools.

    STEM Icon

    Stem Education Coalition

     
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