For
the 35th edition of the 2014 Montreal
International Jazz Festival, the Vincent Rehel concert
was by far and away my first pick in the pleasant surprise
category, in part because he was joined by the very gifted
singer/guitarist Diane Tell.
From
the very first piercing, aching organ notes that sounded
like they had been subjected to unspeakable crimes and punishment,
the Astral
was transformed into a confessional and its captive audience
brought to its knees by music that stuck to the skin like
sap.
Imagine
somewhere in the world there is a place deficient in gravity
whose sole inhabitant can see the ground but cannot touch
it. This is where Vincent Rehel was born and has spent his
entire life trying shape (obliterate) his destiny, and attain
to a place that is always just out of reach. Every composition,
every solo is a variation on this epic struggle –
man against his predicament, his predilections -- and no
matter what he does, he is unable to escape who he is and
life circumstances not of his choosing. His album, Images
du Lendemain (Images of the Following Day) is a record,
an archive, a bearing witness, a blood count of the energy
and effort expended in refusing to abide by the imperatives
of fate.
If
a successful artist is one who is able to make his art equal
to his demons and torment, Vincent Rehel has succeeded by
any measure. The ground that eludes him is reconfigured
as music that becomes the place he calls home, where home
is safe harbour, hallowed ground, a domain reserved for
those for whom the language of music knows no eclipse.
The
sounds that issue from the instrument that is his heart
vacillate from the ghostly to the macabre to the outright
psychotic. His notes occupy space as if they have been scalded
in steam, or spent the night staring at Edvard Munch’s
“The Scream.” The rendering is his self-portrait;
the brutal chord sequences and runaway improvisations expansive
to bursting one moment and paralyzing the next. We’re
not sure if the composer is offering or begging for a blood
transfusion. A Vincent Rehel away from his music for three
days is a dangerous proposition for the world. We dare not
ask what is turning on his spit because we know what turns
in his mind is vividly, vitally, consummately conceived
music that is out of this world in such a way that it brings
us closer to it.
Vincent
Rehel has listened to his Zappa (200 Motels) and
has been brought to tears by Mahler’s adagios. From
his 2013 CD, the tracks “La Chapelle” and “Images
of Tomorrow” combine what is signature in the Rehel
concept: jazz and chamber music mixed to unmask a composer
whose relationship with the world is both a vendetta and
a rite of sacrifice. In the middle sections of both tracks,
Rehel’s organ and the bass and drum fall silent, leaving
the sound to either a trio of orphan voices or the cello
and violins, a single tragic timbre transmuted into liquid,
a gigantic tear that has nowhere to go. As the sustained
note writhes in anguish, Rehel listens, transfixed, immobilized,
a corpse on a cross, head thrown back beseeching an invisible
god to slit his jugular, not to bid adieu to ‘the
beautiful life’ but because his muse feeds on blood.
For
the last half of the concert, he was joined by one of Quebec’s
most gifted artists, singer sans égal, guitarist
par excellence à la Badi Assad ( a well
kept secret) -- the incomparable Diane Tell. Her voice has
never been richer (think Carmen McCrea) and now that she’s
been there, seen it all, mostly in France, we salute Vincent
Rehel for persuading her to return to Quebec and tell. Half
way through her first song I thought to myself it’s
time for Tell to put out a CD of standards in the language
of her choosing.
Bravo
to the festival programmers' daring for showcasing a music
that falls outside every recognizable category, for whom
jazz is just one of many points of departure, and always
an occasion to exhibit portraits of the soul and solitudes
of artists as Jung men.
Caveat
CD emptor: Vincent Rehel is not to everyone’s
taste. After the release of Images du Lendemain,
he was disowned by his family, and I’ll be wearing
a disguise until this review blows over. But for those for
whom music magically, cathartically provides a sense of
belonging, Rehel’s audaciously conceived, oxygen-rich
alternative worlds are proof that the best answer to pain
is the act of creation, and that in the right hands music
fulfils this function like no other art.
Reality
is Rehel is for real.
