Phil Freeman - In the Brewing Luminous: The Life & Music of Cecil Taylor (Wolke Verlag, 2024)

By Taylor McDowell

Most of us probably remember first hearing Cecil Taylor’s music. For me, it was Air Above Mountains (Buildings Within) (Enja, 1978): a solo recording that embedded itself into my mind and gut. I recall feeling mesmerized and, frankly, confused as hell: knowing what I was listening to was profound but I couldn’t grasp why.

That initial point of deflection hurled me along a path of discovery and wonder: confronting Taylor’s massive discography and trying to gain better sense of his genius. I craved reading more about Taylor and accessing as much of his music as possible - like turning over rocks to discover flecks of gold. My appreciation of his artistry grew with each new and repeated listen, coupled with disparate interviews and articles I found online.

Much has been written about Taylor and his music over the years, but conspicuously missing was a published biography of the man and his music. I knew it was a matter of time before some brave journalist endeavored to synthesize the story of one of the most prolific and enigmatic figures of 20th-century music. After hearing of Freeman’s new book, published by the wonderful Wolke Verlag, I instantly set about getting myself a copy.

Like the other Wolke Verlag books I own, it is beautifully published and printed: a thick stock softcover with Taylor’s likeness consuming the front cover. The photo of Taylor, seated at the piano and adorned in sunglasses and a bucket hat (essential Taylor accessories), was taken from his Orchestra performance in Warsaw, 1984. Over 300 pages of material span between the covers and include many photos from over the years.. It’s the kind of book that earns a permanent place on the coffee table or is featured prominently on the bookshelf.

In the Brewing Luminous is Phil Freeman’s fourth book, though he might be best known as the founder of Burning Ambulance (also a record label). Recently, he led the initiative to upload the Leo Records catalog to Bandcamp, but more on that later. Phil’s exposure to Cecil Taylor is documented throughout the pages of his book, such as his first encounters of Taylor live in New York:

“The music was far too much for me to absorb; they played a single 60-minute piece that I received like a child standing in a tidal wave pool at the water park, repeatedly smashed down but determined to withstand whatever came my way.”

And later culminating with his time with Taylor leading up to the 2016 residency at the Whitney Museum. The author’s personal experiences, while not dominant, come to the fore at times. It’s a reminder that Cecil’s music is a highly personal and subjective experience; we, as listeners, can’t help but be reactive to his art, so why write a book that attempts subvert this experience? It also worthwhile to mention Markus Müller’s striking preface, which highlights Taylor’s monumental presence in Berlin in the 80’s and 90’s. Müller’s recollection functions as the flip side of the same coin: the European experience of an American phenomenon.

At its heart, In the Brewing Luminous is a musical biography - linking together events and periods of Taylor’s life that define his artistry. Freeman makes it clear from the beginning: the intent of this book is to illuminate the biographical details of Taylor’s life that lend to his music and art; beyond that, you won’t find the little tidbits of personal information standard to “bio-dramas.” In some aspects, this book functions as a narrated discography and sessionography. We can follow along Taylor’s globetrotting tours, trace the many permutations of his unit and orchestral works, chart the evolution of his solo performances, and participate as the proverbial fly on the wall during his numerous studio recording sessions. Each chapter deals with a discrete period (e.g. Part VIII: 1980-1987) and exhaustively covers each of Taylor’s musical maneuvers: setting his personal encounters and artistic developments against the arc of his career totalis.

Freeman opens the story with a short, but deeply personal introduction describing his interaction with Taylor leading up to the 2016 event at the Whitney Museum: Open Plan: Cecil Taylor. The initial chapters deal with Taylor’s early and formative years: his relationship to his parents, the influence of his mother during his youth; later, his formal education in music, his time in Boston at the New England Conservatory, and early gigs as a professional musician back in New York. The book continues to unravel his long career, highlighting his earliest studio records and the criticism that followed him, “breaking free” in Sweden in 1962 and meeting such iconic figures as Sunny Murray, Andrew Cyrille, Jimmy Lyons, Albert Ayler, etc. We learn about Taylor’s views on musical notation and his propensity towards rigorous rehearsals, where he would dictate passages to his acolytes so they could learn it by ear. Taylor's academic stay at the University of Wisconsin (and later Antioch and Glassboro State Colleges) was crucial to his development as a bandleader, composer, and arranger. We also hear from his former "pupils," such as bassoonist Karen Borca and saxophonist Jameel Moodoc, on Taylor's idiosyncratic approach to rehearsals.

Later chapters deal with Taylor’s legendary residency in Berlin in 1988, which led to the career-defining box set published by FMP. Taylor was no newcomer to Europe at the time, but in the late80s, and following the untimely death of Jimmy Lyons, Cecil’s ensembles became more of an international affair. Reading about this prolific period of Taylor’s career, we can’t help but imagine this was the apogee of his art. Also discussed is his increasing use of dance and poetry within performances (and, at times, poetry recital being the entire performance). Freeman invites us readers to listen to his recorded poetry, such as Chinampas (Leo, 1987), in the same way we would listen to his solo piano: that the rhythmic quality of his words, emphasis on certain syllables, or the volume dynamics of his voice really aren’t all that different from his approach to piano.

The chapters that I found most illuminative were those that deal with the twilight years of his career and life. By this point, Taylor has long been recognized by the world and established as a leading voice in creative music. Choosing not to slow down, Taylor’s creativity flourished in the late’90s and 2000s in a series of partnerships, new and old. His collaboration with Tony Oxley continued, even expanding into a trio with Bill Dixon. Taylor also spent a great deal of this period working with various large ensembles and orchestras. It was, as Freeman describes, “...the ultimate fulfillment of Taylor’s compositional principles…” Some of this music was recorded, though unreleased at the time of writing, giving us hope that these recordings will surface one day. Freeman was present at a number of Taylor’s performances during this period, and later during his retrospective at the Whitney Museum. The author’s personal accounts make the final chapter especially vivid, especially for someone (myself) who never saw Cecil Taylor live.

Occasionally, these chronographic non-fictions run the risk of becoming tedious play-by-plays. Freeman avoids this pitfall for several reasons. First, the text is rife with quotes and interview excerpts from Taylor and his associations. The voices of, say, Andrew Cyrille, William Parker, journalist Chris Funkhouser, or Taylor himself breathe life into the text. One such passage quotes Gary Giddens on the climatic recording session that produced the 3 Phasis(New World, 1978):

“After about forty minutes, [producer Sam] Parkins exulted, ‘We’ve got a record now!’ — but ten minutes later he was worried about whether Taylor would stop in time: ‘I hope he stops pretty soon, because I’d hate to cut this. I’ve never been to anything like this before, have you?’ Taylor punched out a riff, his hands leaping as fast and deft as a cheetah, his arms almost akimbo. Everyone was eyeing the clock nervously and with giddy excitement. And then, nearing fifty-seven minutes, just short of the maximum playing time for a long-playing album, Taylor began to wind down for a dramatic finish. Observers burst into the studio with excited praise, and the laconic Taylor was heard to say, ‘Well, you know we knew it was good, too.’”

Secondly, Freeman capitalizes on what he does best: describe the music in lucid terms. Taylor’s music, like most free or improvised music, isn’t easy to describe. So, Freeman leans on metaphors and easily discernable analysis when writing about Taylor’s music. On describing Tony Oxley in his inaugural meeting with Taylor, which produced Leaf Palm Hand (FMP, 1988):

“His [Oxley’s] kit sounds like it’s made of hard plastic and he’s tapping at the toms with pencils; his cymbals sound at times like aluminum can lids, at other times like they’re in the next room. He rattles across the kit as quickly and dexterously as taylor overruns the keyboard, and his leaps between the lower and upper registers of his multifarious instruments mirror the pianist’s, in spirit at least. He never seems to be following Taylor at any point. And yet, their duo is absolutely that. They are not just playing simultaneously, they are playing together.”

I read In the Brewing Luminous twice. I ended up doing the same thing both times: re-listening to many of Taylor’s recordings. This is where I think Freeman does a service in his book: he encourages the readers to approach Cecil Taylor’s music, again and again:

“Let it hit you like a flood for the first time. Wash yourself in the waves of the notes. Then come back — a day later, perhaps. Play it again, and this time listen as carefully as possible. Focus on his opening gambits, and trace their paths through what follows, like a nurse injecting colored dye into a patient and watching their veins reveal themselves. If — when — you get lost, listen a third time. A fourth. A fifth. At some point, it will unfold before you like a flower, and the beauty of his conception will be fully audible.”

Arming us (the reader) with descriptions of the music or anecdotes about Cecil when the music was recorded, these repeated listenings become a little richer and more satisfying. Like, for example, hearing traces of Taylor’s style yet-to-be in his earliest recording, Jazz Advance(Transition, 1957); Or hearing his fully-formed compositional/arranging vision realized in his short-lived 1978 Unit. Regardless of your exposure to Taylor’s music, there is always something new and exciting to be gleaned through repeated listens. In the Brewing Luminous provides the footnotes to add depth and context to that listening experience.

In the Brewing Luminous is an achievement, not only as the first and only Cecil Taylor biography but because it makes Taylor (and his music) approachable. It’s the kind of book that I wish I had years ago when I first heard Air Above Mountains. But even today, as a devout Taylor fan, it is a book that encourages me to do what I enjoy most: indulge in the music.