http://www.jambands.com/nov00/regional/southwest.html

Language Lessons From The Slip

The Continental Club

Houston, TX

November 8, 2000

by Chris Gardner

Brad Barr, chief melodian/distortion of The Slip, once said of a Boston show, "I thought it created a carbonated beverage feeling - intense bubbling energy but the lid was on."

I wish I had said that.

The Slip shook it up and turned it loose on a cluster of bemused Texans, many of whom dropped in on Wednesday for their first taste. Tapir Productions organized the evening, which began with Texas' ubiquitous Two High String Band whose hill country bluegrass trilling and high harmonies impressed, as always, but failed entirely to prepare the crowd for what followed. Most in the throng had never heard anyone speaking Slip.

If music is language, a jam is a conversation. Straight jazz musicians, polite folks that they are, generally allow each other room to breathe and time to speak, tossing in the occasional, "Mmm Hmm," or , "That's right!" to goad. "Free jazz" musicians on the other hand are impatient and verbose, babbling incessantly, wandering down tangential alleys haphazardly, responding reflexively to each new thought, and interrupting in punctuated bursts, but somehow they prattle on and eavesdrop on each other's thoughts simultaneously. To most, free jazz is a foreign language, and even proficient jazz speakers struggle to decode the crowded confabulation when everyone speaks at once.

The Slip speaks Slip. This trio of multilinguists, whose native language is free jazz, se habla proficient groove, speaks fluent classic rock, has a passable world music vocabulary, and speaks country with a strong Boston accent. Slip the language, the polyglot that emerges from the cauldron, reflects the influences of and uses the vocabulary of all these pieces. It must sound like nonsensical blathering to those who don't speak the language. Do you remember the first time you heard Urdu?

The conversation flies. Brad, brother and drummer Andrew, and fretless bassman Mark Friedman unfairly exploit their telepathic abilities. The three throw ideas at each other like banana peels in a food fight. Themes appear as if by magic, all three comment quickly, and they collectively move on. They all babble so quickly that it seems impossible that they can really hear anything. They cram twenty minutes of conversation into three. Then, as soon as you are certain that they have forgotten entirely what they just said, they return to the original thought with a whole new perspective and turn that nascent thought in just such a way that it casts a new light on everything sandwiched between. It is both progressive and recursive, and did I mention that it flies?

Munf, which slid out of the Chop Shuey opener erupted into a cacophonous conversation that addressed in surprising depth literally dozens of themes before bursting back into the slink of Munf so abruptly and unexpectedly that it drew startled gasps from the now wowed crowd. Have you ever known brothers/sisters/friends/spouses who speak to each other without speaking? Unspoken conversations can speak volumes between these pairs. A sigh is a complete thought, and a furrowed brow is a short story. It is much like that with the Slip. You stand in the room watching these three talking without talking, but you never catch the buzz word or the furrowed brow or the flashed hand signal. No opaque directions. Nary a nod or a wink. Every band has signals of some sort. Be it a growl or a beat or a note or a tilt of the head, they all have them because they all need them. Well, I thought they all needed them. I wish it weren't so stale to reference the X-Files here, because it fits. These guys are creepy.

The Cumulus that opened the second set was a ride in the car with the band. Every few minutes they burst into frenzied laughter for no apparent reason. One will respond to the silence with, "That's exactly what I'm talkin' about man," and another will say, "will it work without the siphon?" as you sit quietly agape.

Brad, who generally sings better with his guitar chords than his vocal chords, nonetheless rang through the irresistible closing section of Eube beautifully, and the La Grange teases percolating through the Highlands encore was a choice nod to Houston's own "damn fine trio".

The Slip may have sounded like Obenglobish to some, but the shaking heads hanging from exhausted shoulders that slunk down the sidewalk at 2:00 am all looked converted. Many thanks to Tapir Productions for another head-jiggling happening.