By Irena Stevanovska and Filip Bukrshliev
Introduction (by Filip)
Lets face it, right off the gate – Skopje Jazz Festival is one of those
miraculous misfires of civilisation. In a country bent on slow and
methodical self-destruction, a place where the State's grand machinery of
subsidized mediocrity hums day-in-day-out, fueling the Orgy of Bad Taste
that keeps the whole place from simply disintegrating – every October, like
some shaggy cosmic loophole, something beautiful happens. A Rupture. A few
nights of celebration and unhindered insight into the Realm of Sound. It's
as if the universe itself briefly comes to its senses and says: "Alright...
there you go, you can have this one good thing."
As a jazz musician – or, to make things even worse, as a jazz musician with
a predominant affinity for improvised music – I've never paid a single denar
to enter this festival. None of my fellow colleagues have. All. These.
Years. And not only that: while the local emissaries of criminal power, the
countless shady ambassadors, opportunistic benefactors of the fine arts,
overly enthusiastic owners of used-car lots and the few misplaced ornaments
of the jet-set stay put in their regular, paid-for seats, the festival
always ushers us, the penniless free-jazz weirdoes, into the VIP lounge. You
know, they've got us Covered. There we get to witness the festival from a
superior, elevated perspective – meet Wadada Leo-Smith, Hamid Drake or Mary
Halvorson – while some cultural attaché stands outside in the drizzle,
chain-smoking in quiet diplomatic despair. It's a total inversion of the
natural order. A small rebellion.
Exactly this is the biggest virtue of Skopje Jazz Festival: the educational
value that it has for everyone who wants to produce sound with an
instrument. Every year you get to hear and meet someone like Anthony Braxton
or Ken Vandermark, and when you come home after that, something fundamental
in you refuses to obey. You will not play as they instructed you in school,
as you were taught that there is only one, the right way to do this. It is
so liberating, so vital to have that on a regular basis, and it is no wonder
why Skopje now has such a strong core of musicians who dabble in jazz and
improvisational music.
This year it was the 44th edition of the festival, with a wildly eclectic
but masterfully curated line up that ebbed and flowed across its four
nights. The first night was opened with the piano trio of Andrzej
Jagodziński; the second night paired the ecstatic genious of Marc Ribot in a
solo format with the Kahir El'Zabar's Ethnic Heritage Ensemble. The third
night we got to witness the scandinavian pairing of After the Wildfire
Quarter with Arve Henriksen and Jan Bang, followed by Goran Kajfeš
Tropiques. The closing night, the explosive ending was reserved for the duet
of Sylvie Courvoisier and Wadada Leo-Smith, followed by the fiery James
Brandon Lewis Molecular Quartet.
Together with Irena we'll try to bring the impressions, sounds and ghosts of
this year's festival.
Day One (16.10.25) (Irena)
The first day of the Jazz Festival in Skopje is always a great delight to be
part of, the familiar excitement of knowing that you will enjoy four days of
great music. For many of us jazz lovers, it means listening to some of our
favorite artists live, and even discovering new ones. The atmosphere before
the concerts is always special. We are a nation that loves to drink and talk
outside before concerts. But also, for some reason, one that loves openings
of events, everyone treats it as some sort of ceremony. The program on the
first day often tries to please a broader audience, which is understandable.
The opening night usually feels more mainstream, more accessible, before
things start to unfold toward the avant-garde side of the Skopje Jazz
Festival as we know it.
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| Andrzej Jagodzinski Trio. Photo by Zdenko Zdepe Petrovski |
The performance of Andrzej Jagodzinski Trio was exactly that, a calm,
respectful opening carried by the brilliance of all three musicians. They
played jazz interpretations of Bach, Chopin, and other classical composers,
and it was clear that Andrzej’s piano was part of him. The way he played was
so fluid, so natural, that it looked almost effortless, the kind of ease
that only comes from years of becoming one with your instrument. The younger
crowd seemed less impressed, maybe because it didn’t feel fully new or
experimental. We’re always craving sounds that twist things, that surprise
us, that bring energy. But a big part of the audience loved it, and I can
understand why. It was beautiful in its own way — elegant and calm. As an
opening act, it worked perfectly. It slowly eased us into the rhythm of the
festival. No madness yet, just a soft, confident sound.
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| National Jazz Orchestra. Photo by Zdenko Zdepe Petrovski |
The second concert of the first night was the National Jazz Orchestra,
joined by the great trombone player Luis Bonilla and conducted by Sigi
Fiegl. The National Orchestra is still pretty new on the scene, but they’ve
already played a number of concerts with musicians from different countries.
Every year, the Jazz Festival gives an award for the best young jazz
musician in Macedonia, and this year it went to the orchestra’s pianist,
Gordan Spasovski.
When all nineteen musicians came out on stage, the atmosphere completely
shifted from the previous concert. They started with an orchestral piece (of
course), gradually building up the energy. Having so many people on stage
completely changed the setup from what we’re used to seeing at the festival.
I’m not so much into big bands, for me personally, it often just feels like
too much. But the audience seemed to enjoy it, because, as I mentioned, the
first night usually carries the more “normal” kind of music.
There was one track led by Luis Bonilla that stood out. Slow and
atmospheric, with that Scandinavian jazz vibe in the brass section. At
moments, the trombone even sounded like something out of Japanese jazz. The
slowness of the piece felt right, connecting back a bit to the calmness of
the previous concert, giving a sense of peace and a very autumn-like mood.
After that, they continued with orchestral jazz. It seemed like Sigi Fiegl
truly enjoyed working with the orchestra, and it’s not his first time
collaborating with them, after all.
Day Two (17.10.25) (Filip)
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| Marc Ribot. Photo by Zdenko Zdepe Petrovski |
The second evening started with Mr. Marc Ribot, planted dead center of the
stage, looking like a man who, against his will, was dragged through the
back door, mumbling an apology to the audience for being new to the
sensitive-white-male-with-guitar shtick. I'll be honest, I’m not a big fan
of his latest record – the reason he is hopping around the continent and
playing in front of us. Let’s just say that I was a bit skeptical about the
possibility for a particularly high level of aural enjoyment on my behalf.
But this kind of entrance flipped the script right away and ensured me that
I was in good hands, that I was going to be expertly handled by a seasoned
albeit reluctant troubadour. He started the concert with a slightly
overgrown ukulele that in the hands of Mr. Ribot convulsed, yelped and
shimmered – from cowboy chords to fractured Derek Bailey spasms. And this
was the modus operandi of the whole concert. No matter if he picked up the
acoustic guitar, the perversely oversaturated electric one or the strange
uke – the gospel of the evening was in this unusual dichotomy: the Folk
Singer meets the Free Jazz Exorcist. Borrowing few Ginsberg poems here and
there, some dry-humored story for the audience, the usual laughs about the
current administration – I’ve never enjoyed being serenaded by a "sensitive
white male" this much. Marc Ribot has a future as a troubadour.
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| Kahil El’Zabar and his Ethnic Heritage Ensemble. Photo by Zdenko Zdepe Petrovski |
Then – BOOM! – part two. Kahil El’Zabar and his Ethnic Heritage Ensemble
appear on the stage like some elemental force conjured by the collective
unconscious. You could feel the tectonic shift, and how the empty platitudes
from their promo material, those usually barren marketing buzzwords like
Hypnotic and Spiritual - suddenly begin to bite you. El'Zabar plays the
Mbira and occasionally the drums, Corey Wilkes on trumpet, Alex Harding on
baritone sax and Ishmael Ali on cello. They didn't perform compositions,
they summoned weather. The air changed viscosity to something glue-like,
sound flew like a tired bird through a heat haze. Every hit on the various
percussions, every moan on the baritone sax, every vail of the trumpet –
felt ancient and deliberate. I could swear that the mics were turned off,
but the fairly large hall belonged just to them. The stage seemed like a
diorama of four suave alley cats expertly wagging their tails and busking in
their collective banter. At one time Lonely Woman was intonated. Maybe one
Wayne Shorter composition. Couple of originals. Who knows? That is
unimportant. What is important is that this is how jazz performances that
dabble with the tradition should be - after they are done the listener is
left to mumble like a deranged tik-tok mystic, alone into the void.
Exceptional concert.
Day Three (18.10.25) (Irena)
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| After the Wildfire Quartet. Photo by Zdenko Zdepe Petrovski |
The third night opened with After the Wildfire Quartet. The Scandinavian
quartet stepped on stage and immediately dissolved into the sound. Even the
name hinted at what was to come, music that feels like the quiet after
destruction.
It began with a slow, melancholic piece — the air heavy and hollow. Arve
Henriksen’s trumpet carried all the weight of sadness, every tone soaked in
silence. The opening felt like the death of nature itself: everything
stripped bare, emptied out.
But as the concert unfolded, something subtle began to shift. Little by
little, sounds returned, like nature learning to breathe again after the
burn. Fragments of life reemerged, tentative but alive. In the middle of the
set, it all opened into a landscape that felt like the steppes, vast, empty,
but awakening. The music moved through that space with a strange kind of
tenderness, as if the healing of nature was happening inside the listener
too. When it ended, many said they had never heard anything like it live. It
was one of those rare experiences that touches something deep — the soul’s
quiet renewal after a storm.
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| Goran Kajfeš Tropiques. Photo by Zdenko Zdepe Petrovski |
And then, a bigger band — Goran Kajfeš Tropiques, a nine-piece ensemble
stepping onto the stage. The setup looked beautiful: two violins, a viola, a
cello, drums, bass, piano, a mysterious synth I couldn’t quite see, and
Kajfeš himself on trumpet and Moog. At first, the music felt a bit
scholarly, precise, almost academic. But then the Moog came in, and
everything shifted. Its tone was mesmerizing, adding a vivid color that
lifted the whole performance to another level. The string section at times
echoed Steve Reich, repetitive but alive, while the bass held a steady, rich
line underneath. The pianist might have been my favorite, fluid and
intuitive, shaping beautiful textures both on piano and synth. It was a
genuinely strong performance. The violinists were local Macedonian artists
joining the band for the first time, they added a special warmth to the
sound. A fitting way to close the third night, letting the energy dissolve
naturally into the mood of what was to come the next day.
Day five (19.10.25) (Filip)
The final evening of the festival was... something else entirely. Sunday,
the day of the local elections in Macedonia. Out in front of the hall the
air crackled with the sound of cheap fireworks and the various meaty thuds
of gunshot-adjacent KAPOWs ricocheting out in the distance – the feral
soundtrack of miscellaneous criminal gangs celebrating another 4 years of
free range demoncracy – a fitting aural prelude to the historic night this
festival is about to experience.
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| Sylvie Courvoisie and Wadada Leo-Smith. Photo by Zdenko Zdepe Petrovski |
And then – they appear. Sylvie Courvoisie and Wadada Leo-Smith, two familiar
figures emerging from the dim lights on the stage, ready to baptize everyone
in attendance. Their latest duo album,
Angel Falls [Intakt] quickly
established as the favourite holy scripture for me this year. There is an
interesting sensation with this pairing: even though they play in many
similar formats, and Wadada has those exceptional ECM releases with Vijay
Iyer – they somehow manage to bring out their definitive form when they play
together, as if I've never heard of a better Wadada or better Sylvie than
this combination. Live, they are a completely different creature. More
kinetic... shifting, stirring, elbows flying, hitting the piano, various
devices rumble in his insights, the trumpet soars, glides and floats, a
sudden stop, and we are off again – then a brief intermission because the
election celebration outside intensifies and pierces the hall sound
insulation, a huge BANG! BANG! briefly rattles the object – Sylvie starts an
unusually delicate and melodic motif, Wadada slides in, the unbearable
poignancy of the moment grows, expands, swells, almost like an out-of-body
experience, maybe they will replicate the explosion indoors, then they share
a sudden nod – tiny, wordless – and they are done. Exquisite!
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| James Brandon Lewis
Molecular Quintet. Photo by Zdenko Zdepe Petrovski |
The last concert will be the shortest impression. James Brandon Lewis
Molecular Quintet. You know them. I know them. Everyone within a radius of 2
km felt them. Not much left to add. The man doesn't just blow the horn, he
moves air and re-arranges atoms into an instantly commanding presence. You
just... surrender. And then, there is Aruán Ortiz on the piano with his
ability to carve intricate geometry out of the craziest combinations of
sounds imaginable. There is something in that Brandon Lewis/Ortiz axis thar
instantly evokes the legendary chemistry and aura of the Coltrane/Tyner
two-headed screaming monster. We are, nonetheless, groomed through the years
like pavlovian dogs to drool on such stimulus. Drool I say. And yes, the
concert was Fantastic. They played mostly the material from their latest
album, Abstraction is Deliverance [Intakt], but the live setting annuled the
only-ballads mission statement of the record. No gentle meditation, only
absolution through combustion. James screamed and burned through the set,
everyone took extended solos, the intensity was beyond MAX... I just really
hope that someone recorded the performance, so in 50 years from now some kid
would sit in front of the music stand, trying to chase those impossible
transcriptions, with the teacher standing next to him, desperately
screaming: "No, no... this is the right way to do it!"
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