JAM: August/September 2001 Issue: The Greatest Horn of All

The Greatest Horn of All
Over the span of a spotty recording career (six solo albums in 20 years, plus a handful of others as a sideperson), nothing has generated the kind of diverse feedback as the final cut on the latest CD, released in June.

"It reminded me of a sad clown."

"Was it a cry for help?"

"I think it needs a laugh track."

And my favorite: "Was that a real clarinet? Or some kind of weird synthesizer?"

As one of the few (if only) instrumentalists who specializes on the Clarinet d'Amore, I've found each of these comments to be somewhat troubling. It not only takes a sensitive artist to bring such evocative pathos to a heartfelt ballad like "The Greatest Love of All," it also takes a true romantic who, like other legendary interpreters of song (Sarah, Ella, Boots, Acker Bilk), is willing to cast inhibitions to the wind and put all emotions on the table. Even if it means being misunderstood.

And being misunderstood -- if not scorned -- seems to come with the turf, as I am beginning to learn. Especially when faced with the reactions of those who, out of sheer jealousy and spite, do what they can to undermine the brilliance of a worthy visionary whose craft is all about visceral self-expression. I mean, it's one thing to be ignored, but to be mocked because of a gift from the gods is an affront to the greatness only a few of us will ever achieve. Playing the Clarinet d'Amore is not as easy as I make it sound, Mr./Ms. Jazz Policeperson. YOU try it sometime!

But now, about the instrument itself. And the preposterous notion that it may not even be "real"...

Prior to the historic recording session at KC's Soundtrek Studio that brought this poignant tone poem to life (engineers Ron Ubel, Craig Rettmer and Jeff Shiller had to be heavily sedated then hypnotized in order to complete the finished version that found its way to The Can), I visited a local music store in search of the perfect Clarinet d'Amore. My friend and mentor Gary Sivils ("band instrument salesman by day, jazz musician by night") just happened to be on the job that afternoon, and no sooner had I asked him to "show me the most soulful clarinet in the store," than he said, "Follow me."

To the back of the store we went, deep into the labyrinth that contained the "graveyard" of forsaken band instruments left for dead by short-term beginners. And there it was, alone on a dusty shelf... the Holy Grail of Horns. The price tag said $199, and the brand name read "Sears & Roebuck;" but it was the crimson lipstick still saturating the chipped mouthpiece that caught my eye. "This is the one, Gary," I said in hushed, awestruck tones. "You've made me a very happy virtuoso." And off I went to Soundtrek (where needles on VU meters remain stuck in the red to this day).

Yes, I know; none of this explains why the recording actually exists, or why it is available for public consumption. But, if you count yourself among those who are confused by the track in question, blame its inclusion on something I call "A Congenital Predisposition for Infrequent Sonic Aberration." (Pat's "Forward March" and about 30 seconds of Zero Tolerance for Silence should shed some light on this condition.)

And if that doesn't quite do it, blame a desire to defuse talk of pretentiousness and self-indulgence stemming from the album's concept, even though there will be some of that anyway. (At least when Pat did the same thing ten years ago after splitting up with his chick, he was smart enough to call it a Secret Story.)

Above and beyond these things, however, think of track #10 as a sense of humor test. If it brings on a grin, then you have blood coursing through your veins, you know and respect the work of "Jonathan and Darlene Edwards," and you pass.

But if it makes you frown, or you just plain don't get the spoof, then I'm sorry... you should start checking yourself for a pulse and splashing cold water on your face.

Because, not only is your musical funny bone deader than Spike Jones' love muscle, but you would probably get bugged if I paraphrased the great Louis Armstrong by saying:

"The Clarinet d'Amore is just an extension of myself."

-- Mike Metheny

RETURN TO AUGUST/SEPTEMBER 2001 MAIN INDEX

© Kansas City Jazz Ambassadors 1996-2001. All rights reserved.






	Search our site:		The Greatest Horn of All Over the span of a spotty recording career (six solo albums in 20 years, plus a handful of others as a sideperson), nothing has generated the kind of diverse feedback as the final cut on the latest CD, released in June. "It reminded me of a sad clown." "Was it a cry for help?" "I think it needs a laugh track." And my favorite: "Was that a real clarinet? Or some kind of weird synthesizer?" As one of the few (if only) instrumentalists who specializes on the Clarinet d'Amore, I've found each of these comments to be somewhat troubling. It not only takes a sensitive artist to bring such evocative pathos to a heartfelt ballad like "The Greatest Love of All," it also takes a true romantic who, like other legendary interpreters of song (Sarah, Ella, Boots, Acker Bilk), is willing to cast inhibitions to the wind and put all emotions on the table. Even if it means being misunderstood. And being misunderstood -- if not scorned -- seems to come with the turf, as I am beginning to learn. Especially when faced with the reactions of those who, out of sheer jealousy and spite, do what they can to undermine the brilliance of a worthy visionary whose craft is all about visceral self-expression. I mean, it's one thing to be ignored, but to be mocked because of a gift from the gods is an affront to the greatness only a few of us will ever achieve. Playing the Clarinet d'Amore is not as easy as I make it sound, Mr./Ms. Jazz Policeperson. YOU try it sometime! But now, about the instrument itself. And the preposterous notion that it may not even be "real"... Prior to the historic recording session at KC's Soundtrek Studio that brought this poignant tone poem to life (engineers Ron Ubel, Craig Rettmer and Jeff Shiller had to be heavily sedated then hypnotized in order to complete the finished version that found its way to The Can), I visited a local music store in search of the perfect Clarinet d'Amore. My friend and mentor Gary Sivils ("band instrument salesman by day, jazz musician by night") just happened to be on the job that afternoon, and no sooner had I asked him to "show me the most soulful clarinet in the store," than he said, "Follow me." To the back of the store we went, deep into the labyrinth that contained the "graveyard" of forsaken band instruments left for dead by short-term beginners. And there it was, alone on a dusty shelf... the Holy Grail of Horns. The price tag said $199, and the brand name read "Sears & Roebuck;" but it was the crimson lipstick still saturating the chipped mouthpiece that caught my eye. "This is the one, Gary," I said in hushed, awestruck tones. "You've made me a very happy virtuoso." And off I went to Soundtrek (where needles on VU meters remain stuck in the red to this day). Yes, I know; none of this explains why the recording actually exists, or why it is available for public consumption. But, if you count yourself among those who are confused by the track in question, blame its inclusion on something I call "A Congenital Predisposition for Infrequent Sonic Aberration." (Pat's "Forward March" and about 30 seconds of Zero Tolerance for Silence should shed some light on this condition.) And if that doesn't quite do it, blame a desire to defuse talk of pretentiousness and self-indulgence stemming from the album's concept, even though there will be some of that anyway. (At least when Pat did the same thing ten years ago after splitting up with his chick, he was smart enough to call it a Secret Story.) Above and beyond these things, however, think of track #10 as a sense of humor test. If it brings on a grin, then you have blood coursing through your veins, you know and respect the work of "Jonathan and Darlene Edwards," and you pass. But if it makes you frown, or you just plain don't get the spoof, then I'm sorry... you should start checking yourself for a pulse and splashing cold water on your face. Because, not only is your musical funny bone deader than Spike Jones' love muscle, but you would probably get bugged if I paraphrased the great Louis Armstrong by saying: "The Clarinet d'Amore is just an extension of myself." -- Mike Metheny RETURN TO AUGUST/SEPTEMBER 2001 MAIN INDEX © Kansas City Jazz Ambassadors 1996-2001. All rights reserved.