The Sky Will Still Be There Tomorrow: Notes on the Roaring '20s, Egomania, and Jazz
Album Reivew by Alexander Cain in Music Review World, 5.16.24
PART ONE: THE OLD GET OLD, AND THE YOUNG GET STRONGERJazz music? In 2024? Why in the name of all that is holy would anyone in 2024 still be listening to jazz? Or even worse, making jazz? Or worst of all, writing about jazz? Were Miles, John, Charles, Alice, Chet, Nina, and Louis not enough for you freaks? I mean really, what else is there to say? And now, because you weren’t satisfied, we have another record clogging up the zeitgeist, distracting from the important new music, like that new Jessica Pratt record. But now, instead of listening to that, people are listening to this new jazz record, The Sky Will Still Be There Tomorrow, from some real old guy (86!) named Charles Lloyd, who's been around since ‘64, but you’ve probably never heard his name unless you have some real music freak friend like me who pesters you with all this jazz gunk (Why are you still friends with them/me? Can’t you do any better?). Point is, it’s the Roaring ‘20s now, and that Memphis stuff just don’t fit in no more, Grandpa.
“I’m not sure why you waste your talents on writing a bunch of shit about albums when you could write one of the greatest novels of all time,” is something a friend told me when he read my most recent record review. What will he say when he reads all these theories and metaphors about not just music, but jazz music? He’ll flip his shit before he even gets through the first paragraph I’ll bet, and he’ll either text me immediately or verbally abuse me the next time I see him in person: “Why would you write all these pages about jazz music? At least people care about the other albums you write about! Dumbass!”
And he’s right. The one he read most recently was my review of the new Cindy Lee album, which is the type of album us young folk can actually get behind without too much disagreement. But I’ll bet less than half of you Gen Z kids have ever listened to a jazz record all the way through. And I apologize, I know I sound like a snob. Many jazz listeners unfortunately become prone to some level of snobbishness.
So I’ll continue to assume the role of the snob, and get something off my chest: Although not all of it is up to my exact taste, I believe jazz to be one of the purest examples of contemporary art in its true form. I can see my previously mentioned friend now, steaming out the ears as he reads this. Well, let me just address you now, pal, and you know who you are, you pizza-faced little hemorrhoid: I’ll write whatever I want about whatever I want, and if you don’t want to listen don’t. But I know you’ll still read to the end, only so you can tell me how much talent I wasted on this one.
As for everyone else reading who is unfamiliar with jazz, consider this to be an experiment. Read the review, or better yet listen to the album, and then if you can’t dig it, you never have to listen again. You can kick out the jams, but no one will ever be able to tell you to listen to jazz again, because you already did, and it just wasn’t your thing.
I’ve had disagreements with others about what exactly the purpose of music critique is, and I’m still not entirely sure myself. But when I receive guidelines for writing these reviews up (most of which I disregard, which has stolen from me many opportunities), one of the constants is that the purpose of the review I’m writing is to help the reader decide whether to listen to an album or not.
So I guess I have two jobs, as it looks from my end, which is to first convince you that jazz is still somehow important, and to second convince you to put on this 90 minute jazz record, even if you never even heard “Flamenco Sketches” in passing. I’ll do my best.
PART TWO: MILES DAVIS AND TAYLOR SWIFTSo, it’s been over half a century since Kind of Blue came out, which may forever remain the undisputed high-point of jazz, not only for the music but for the grandness of it all. Could there ever be a more legendary collaboration of musicians in jazz (or any music, debatably) again? Probably not, because no jazz album could ever be a cultural landmark in the same way again, even if it was sonically better. What I’m saying is, if rock and roll is actually dead, then the corpse of jazz is nearly decomposed by now, crawling inside and out with insects of varying anatomy and sizes. But neither of them are dead, and anyone who tells you so is just plain wrong, even if one or both aren’t as popular as they used to be.
Even though I’m madly in love with a lot of the old stuff (“That guy just wants to suck Jim Morrison’s cock,” someone once told my friend), I will admit that a lot of it is limited by the times. Can you imagine if George Martin (the real fifth Beatle) was able to turn Paul, George, and John, onto guitar pedals back in the 60s, if only they were as widespread then? Those later albums would be even more of a trip! Or maybe they wouldn’t fit in, ‘cause that’s just not the Beatles. So, even though I’ll argue the validity of the Beatles to my grave, I will say that their sound and brand will never really be considered as being outside of the 60s bubble musically. Ahead of their time, of course, but not ahead of our time.
However, the work of Miles Davis is truly timeless, something that is hard to say about any art. People will be listening to Miles Davis until the day the world caves in, because his music is not a product of the 60s the same way as the Beatles, or Jefferson Airplane, or Hendrix was, but instead the product of something deeply felt within Davis, something unexplainable that is inherent in the souls of all humans, but can only be brought out by records like Miles Ahead, Kind of Blue, In a Silent Way, or Bitches Brew. For the majority of his life, he continued his musical experiment which never conformed to the jazz standards of the time entirely, because he had a vision that he had been building on since The New Sounds in ‘51, and refused to compromise it for anyone. Believe it or not, quite a lot of critics trashed him back in the day, although no one would dare say a bad thing about him now, and that’s a good thing.
Obviously the sound is appealing, there’s no doubt about that. “Virtuous” was how another small-time music critic put it to me. But I believe there to be another driving factor in the appeal, which is also the reason why as I said before, this is art in its truest form. And that is the total lack of ego in the music. Make no mistake, this is all Miles’ genius, all his guts, but none of Miles’ ego.
Take a look at probably the biggest modern music act out right now: Taylor Swift. I have a love/hate attitude toward a lot of what she puts out, believing there to be a genuine quality difference in a lot of her music, and frustrated that some people think it's all good and some people think it's all bad. But I will say that as it stands, Taylor Swift is everything jazz goes against. Pure egomania.
I know a couple people who went to the Eras tour, and they all spent over a grand (at least) on tickets and fees alone. If Jesus was at the Hollywood Bowl, they would crucify him. But if Taylor Swift makes me wait in line for two hours and then makes me pay a couple grand for her to split my eardrums open with a poorly chosen setlist, she becomes the first person to make a billion dollars off record sales alone. The act isn’t about the music, it’s about Swift. And the music isn’t about the music either. It’s about her failed relationships, her childhood, and whatever else she wants to sing about. I’m not trashing you for liking her, but I am saying that Taylor Swift’s brand is larger than her music, which just simply is not true for jazz, one of the only genres where the music can truly outshine the performer.
Did you know Miles Davis was a total womanizer, maybe even a scumbag? Probably not. But did you know that Taylor has bad blood with Katy Perry? Unless you live under a rock, you definitely do. Neither is more valuable, it's all to your preference, but jazz undoubtedly involves much less ego, which is the driving force of its greatness just as much as its genius.
That’s what makes me respect the hell out of Charles Lloyd, the old fart, maybe as much as Miles Davis at this point. He doesn’t care if anyone except people like me listen to his record, because he is making this music purely for himself, which makes it purely for humanity. When I listen, I don’t think of any specific time or place or person…in fact, I barely think at all.
When I put on Journey in Satchidananda (Alice Coltrane), or The Black Saint and the Sinner Lady (Charles Mingus), or Bitches Brew, or even this new record (which the review is actually still about, believe it or not), The Sky Will Still Be There Tomorrow, I’m not thinking about the system, or peyote trips in the desert, or whichever girl I’m convinced I’m in love with at the time. I’m instead seeing. I could write a novel about the images which cycle through my mind like a seamless slideshow as I hear—feel!—the swell of the trumpets or the sad tinkle of the piano or the groan of the tenor sax. In the case of Lloyd, there’s a notable amount of flute on the album.
What all this really means is that jazz music is one of those types of art that really can be interpreted in many different ways, and should be. There are no lyrics to tell you what the song is about or express some sort of agenda on the part of the musician. The music must simply speak for itself.
That’s why it’s a big deal when you can put on a jazz album that holds your attention for 2 discs, but more importantly elicits an emotional reaction.
PART THREE: THE SKY WILL STILL BE THERE TOMORROWSo let’s actually get to the album, now that I’ve talked your ear off for 10 minutes. Those of you who are still here must have a reason to be. Either you’ve got an open mind to hearing this music, or you’re now just reading for shits-and-giggles, seeing how long this kid can keep up this gibberish before he tires himself out.
The opening track, “Defiant, Tender Warrior” should be enough to intrigue anyone who is already acquainted with jazz. It’s a classic jazz album opener, where the instruments come in one by one, starting with Brian Blade’s muted drums tap-tapping in the darkness. Then steps in Jason Moran’s piano, which he plays with such humility and grace that you’re still in that initial awe that overcomes you when you hear a great riff, when you’re hit by the tender first cries of Lloyd’s sax, which swells up into a beautiful wail after a minute or two. By the end of track one, you slip into the music like a warm bath, entering a trance that is difficult to break.
“The Lonely One” features the first self-contained jazz freakout on the album, about five or so minutes into the record. Blade’s drums began to deviate from their calm rumble, and start to speed up while also getting a little louder. Those who are paying attention will raise an eyebrow at this, wondering if the music is about to reach a new climax or just taper back off into peaceful jamming. As you may have hoped, it explodes into a beautiful outburst that pumps the first truly intoxicating rush of dopamine to the brain.
Crashing cymbals and stormy piano keys shoot up and down every pathway in the listener's mind, illuminating each neuron it passes through to the intensity of a supernova. Once the music calmed down again, I really started to get a feel for it, and by the end of track two, I couldn’t sit still if I tried.
The piano on the next track, “Monk’s Dance,” was what really got me moving. I was tapping my foot and bouncing my knee and nodding my head as I listened for the first time in my bedroom one morning, slanted bars of sunshine cutting across the floor in front of me. It was as the enthusiastic sax began to really get going that I realized I could not channel all these great vibrations through my body alone.
There were some drumsticks sticking out of a milk crate on my floor, despite me not owning a drum set. I scooped them up without a second thought and started tapping them on a vinyl cover of Coltrane’s Giant Steps, which I had listened to beforehand as a warm up. I tap-tap-tapped away, nodding my head along and grinning like an idiot, as if I were really there jamming with all those old guys in the studio, just making good ol’ fashioned jazz.
“Monk’s Dance” is one of my favorites of the whole thing, even though I feel like I have a new favorite every time I listen. There’s a great variety on the album, and the music is consistently engaging if you’re willing to put the focus in. “Late Bloom” comes two tracks later, a fantastic flute ballad, functioning as a one minute piece that breaks up the flow of long solos a little. The flute continues into the first section of the next track, “Booker’s Garden,” before being taken over by another freakout sesh.
And Jeez, I haven’t even said anything about Larry Grenadier’s bass yet, despite it being a very vital part of the sound. Sorry, Lar, but I didn’t really take any major note of the bass until the opening solo on “The Ghost of Lady Day,” which I kid you not gave me goosebumps, especially with the added stutters of distant drums and more incredible cymbals. Not bad.
The title track comes after “The Ghost of Lady Day.” And now that everyone has had the proper chance to show off their skills over the course of the first six tracks, they can really start to play as a collective, still allowing room for solos here and there. The song starts with a great sax riff, accompanied by some more improvisational but still never sloppy drumlines. It all builds into increasingly more complex arpeggios, ups and downs, cycles of grand crescendos broken up by equally chaotic and impressive piano flourishes and crashing drums. And I’m not forgetting about the bass again, because either I’m just noticing it more, or it becomes more prominent on the second disc, where some of the songs are a little weirder.
The instrumentals speed up and become a little harder to follow, but none of it ever gets bad. Seriously, if you’re not convinced of the greatness of jazz and this album by the time you reach the last track, “Defiant, Reprise; Homeward,” then you really are hopeless. I’m not trying to insult you, but you may just have to accept that you don’t have the ears and mind for jazz, which is okay. It’s not the ‘50s anymore, there are other things to listen to. I understand Charles Lloyd is likely not an artist of modern times, but rather of the ages, something to be listened to in the future by a new generation of snobs, rather than this generation of hip Zoomers.
Jazz music, although it hasn’t changed much since Miles, still manages to astound and touch me in ways that other art cannot. Some of the highest highs and the lowest lows in music can be found on these records, making you feel like you’ve lived a lifetime when they’re over.
In a hundred years, this album will not be a reflection of 2024, or where music was, the same way that albums like Diamond Jubilee and Wall of Eyes and Funeral for Justice and about fifty others I just can’t think of now will be. Truthfully, it’s been a helluva a year for music, but jazz still remains the most consistently human and timeless genres of the artform, which is why this is still a standout record (to me, at least) even amidst the roaring ‘20s. I don’t think we’ll run out of good music, or good jazz, even though I was unsure back in January.
But, if it is a hundred years later when you read this, and there really is no more good music (which I doubt), then I say this to you…Ha! I lived during a time when they still made great music, and even better, great jazz.
“I’m not sure why you waste your talents on writing a bunch of shit about albums when you could write one of the greatest novels of all time,” is something a friend told me when he read my most recent record review. What will he say when he reads all these theories and metaphors about not just music, but jazz music? He’ll flip his shit before he even gets through the first paragraph I’ll bet, and he’ll either text me immediately or verbally abuse me the next time I see him in person: “Why would you write all these pages about jazz music? At least people care about the other albums you write about! Dumbass!”
And he’s right. The one he read most recently was my review of the new Cindy Lee album, which is the type of album us young folk can actually get behind without too much disagreement. But I’ll bet less than half of you Gen Z kids have ever listened to a jazz record all the way through. And I apologize, I know I sound like a snob. Many jazz listeners unfortunately become prone to some level of snobbishness.
So I’ll continue to assume the role of the snob, and get something off my chest: Although not all of it is up to my exact taste, I believe jazz to be one of the purest examples of contemporary art in its true form. I can see my previously mentioned friend now, steaming out the ears as he reads this. Well, let me just address you now, pal, and you know who you are, you pizza-faced little hemorrhoid: I’ll write whatever I want about whatever I want, and if you don’t want to listen don’t. But I know you’ll still read to the end, only so you can tell me how much talent I wasted on this one.
As for everyone else reading who is unfamiliar with jazz, consider this to be an experiment. Read the review, or better yet listen to the album, and then if you can’t dig it, you never have to listen again. You can kick out the jams, but no one will ever be able to tell you to listen to jazz again, because you already did, and it just wasn’t your thing.
I’ve had disagreements with others about what exactly the purpose of music critique is, and I’m still not entirely sure myself. But when I receive guidelines for writing these reviews up (most of which I disregard, which has stolen from me many opportunities), one of the constants is that the purpose of the review I’m writing is to help the reader decide whether to listen to an album or not.
So I guess I have two jobs, as it looks from my end, which is to first convince you that jazz is still somehow important, and to second convince you to put on this 90 minute jazz record, even if you never even heard “Flamenco Sketches” in passing. I’ll do my best.
PART TWO: MILES DAVIS AND TAYLOR SWIFTSo, it’s been over half a century since Kind of Blue came out, which may forever remain the undisputed high-point of jazz, not only for the music but for the grandness of it all. Could there ever be a more legendary collaboration of musicians in jazz (or any music, debatably) again? Probably not, because no jazz album could ever be a cultural landmark in the same way again, even if it was sonically better. What I’m saying is, if rock and roll is actually dead, then the corpse of jazz is nearly decomposed by now, crawling inside and out with insects of varying anatomy and sizes. But neither of them are dead, and anyone who tells you so is just plain wrong, even if one or both aren’t as popular as they used to be.
Even though I’m madly in love with a lot of the old stuff (“That guy just wants to suck Jim Morrison’s cock,” someone once told my friend), I will admit that a lot of it is limited by the times. Can you imagine if George Martin (the real fifth Beatle) was able to turn Paul, George, and John, onto guitar pedals back in the 60s, if only they were as widespread then? Those later albums would be even more of a trip! Or maybe they wouldn’t fit in, ‘cause that’s just not the Beatles. So, even though I’ll argue the validity of the Beatles to my grave, I will say that their sound and brand will never really be considered as being outside of the 60s bubble musically. Ahead of their time, of course, but not ahead of our time.
However, the work of Miles Davis is truly timeless, something that is hard to say about any art. People will be listening to Miles Davis until the day the world caves in, because his music is not a product of the 60s the same way as the Beatles, or Jefferson Airplane, or Hendrix was, but instead the product of something deeply felt within Davis, something unexplainable that is inherent in the souls of all humans, but can only be brought out by records like Miles Ahead, Kind of Blue, In a Silent Way, or Bitches Brew. For the majority of his life, he continued his musical experiment which never conformed to the jazz standards of the time entirely, because he had a vision that he had been building on since The New Sounds in ‘51, and refused to compromise it for anyone. Believe it or not, quite a lot of critics trashed him back in the day, although no one would dare say a bad thing about him now, and that’s a good thing.
Obviously the sound is appealing, there’s no doubt about that. “Virtuous” was how another small-time music critic put it to me. But I believe there to be another driving factor in the appeal, which is also the reason why as I said before, this is art in its truest form. And that is the total lack of ego in the music. Make no mistake, this is all Miles’ genius, all his guts, but none of Miles’ ego.
Take a look at probably the biggest modern music act out right now: Taylor Swift. I have a love/hate attitude toward a lot of what she puts out, believing there to be a genuine quality difference in a lot of her music, and frustrated that some people think it's all good and some people think it's all bad. But I will say that as it stands, Taylor Swift is everything jazz goes against. Pure egomania.
I know a couple people who went to the Eras tour, and they all spent over a grand (at least) on tickets and fees alone. If Jesus was at the Hollywood Bowl, they would crucify him. But if Taylor Swift makes me wait in line for two hours and then makes me pay a couple grand for her to split my eardrums open with a poorly chosen setlist, she becomes the first person to make a billion dollars off record sales alone. The act isn’t about the music, it’s about Swift. And the music isn’t about the music either. It’s about her failed relationships, her childhood, and whatever else she wants to sing about. I’m not trashing you for liking her, but I am saying that Taylor Swift’s brand is larger than her music, which just simply is not true for jazz, one of the only genres where the music can truly outshine the performer.
Did you know Miles Davis was a total womanizer, maybe even a scumbag? Probably not. But did you know that Taylor has bad blood with Katy Perry? Unless you live under a rock, you definitely do. Neither is more valuable, it's all to your preference, but jazz undoubtedly involves much less ego, which is the driving force of its greatness just as much as its genius.
That’s what makes me respect the hell out of Charles Lloyd, the old fart, maybe as much as Miles Davis at this point. He doesn’t care if anyone except people like me listen to his record, because he is making this music purely for himself, which makes it purely for humanity. When I listen, I don’t think of any specific time or place or person…in fact, I barely think at all.
When I put on Journey in Satchidananda (Alice Coltrane), or The Black Saint and the Sinner Lady (Charles Mingus), or Bitches Brew, or even this new record (which the review is actually still about, believe it or not), The Sky Will Still Be There Tomorrow, I’m not thinking about the system, or peyote trips in the desert, or whichever girl I’m convinced I’m in love with at the time. I’m instead seeing. I could write a novel about the images which cycle through my mind like a seamless slideshow as I hear—feel!—the swell of the trumpets or the sad tinkle of the piano or the groan of the tenor sax. In the case of Lloyd, there’s a notable amount of flute on the album.
What all this really means is that jazz music is one of those types of art that really can be interpreted in many different ways, and should be. There are no lyrics to tell you what the song is about or express some sort of agenda on the part of the musician. The music must simply speak for itself.
That’s why it’s a big deal when you can put on a jazz album that holds your attention for 2 discs, but more importantly elicits an emotional reaction.
PART THREE: THE SKY WILL STILL BE THERE TOMORROWSo let’s actually get to the album, now that I’ve talked your ear off for 10 minutes. Those of you who are still here must have a reason to be. Either you’ve got an open mind to hearing this music, or you’re now just reading for shits-and-giggles, seeing how long this kid can keep up this gibberish before he tires himself out.
The opening track, “Defiant, Tender Warrior” should be enough to intrigue anyone who is already acquainted with jazz. It’s a classic jazz album opener, where the instruments come in one by one, starting with Brian Blade’s muted drums tap-tapping in the darkness. Then steps in Jason Moran’s piano, which he plays with such humility and grace that you’re still in that initial awe that overcomes you when you hear a great riff, when you’re hit by the tender first cries of Lloyd’s sax, which swells up into a beautiful wail after a minute or two. By the end of track one, you slip into the music like a warm bath, entering a trance that is difficult to break.
“The Lonely One” features the first self-contained jazz freakout on the album, about five or so minutes into the record. Blade’s drums began to deviate from their calm rumble, and start to speed up while also getting a little louder. Those who are paying attention will raise an eyebrow at this, wondering if the music is about to reach a new climax or just taper back off into peaceful jamming. As you may have hoped, it explodes into a beautiful outburst that pumps the first truly intoxicating rush of dopamine to the brain.
Crashing cymbals and stormy piano keys shoot up and down every pathway in the listener's mind, illuminating each neuron it passes through to the intensity of a supernova. Once the music calmed down again, I really started to get a feel for it, and by the end of track two, I couldn’t sit still if I tried.
The piano on the next track, “Monk’s Dance,” was what really got me moving. I was tapping my foot and bouncing my knee and nodding my head as I listened for the first time in my bedroom one morning, slanted bars of sunshine cutting across the floor in front of me. It was as the enthusiastic sax began to really get going that I realized I could not channel all these great vibrations through my body alone.
There were some drumsticks sticking out of a milk crate on my floor, despite me not owning a drum set. I scooped them up without a second thought and started tapping them on a vinyl cover of Coltrane’s Giant Steps, which I had listened to beforehand as a warm up. I tap-tap-tapped away, nodding my head along and grinning like an idiot, as if I were really there jamming with all those old guys in the studio, just making good ol’ fashioned jazz.
“Monk’s Dance” is one of my favorites of the whole thing, even though I feel like I have a new favorite every time I listen. There’s a great variety on the album, and the music is consistently engaging if you’re willing to put the focus in. “Late Bloom” comes two tracks later, a fantastic flute ballad, functioning as a one minute piece that breaks up the flow of long solos a little. The flute continues into the first section of the next track, “Booker’s Garden,” before being taken over by another freakout sesh.
And Jeez, I haven’t even said anything about Larry Grenadier’s bass yet, despite it being a very vital part of the sound. Sorry, Lar, but I didn’t really take any major note of the bass until the opening solo on “The Ghost of Lady Day,” which I kid you not gave me goosebumps, especially with the added stutters of distant drums and more incredible cymbals. Not bad.
The title track comes after “The Ghost of Lady Day.” And now that everyone has had the proper chance to show off their skills over the course of the first six tracks, they can really start to play as a collective, still allowing room for solos here and there. The song starts with a great sax riff, accompanied by some more improvisational but still never sloppy drumlines. It all builds into increasingly more complex arpeggios, ups and downs, cycles of grand crescendos broken up by equally chaotic and impressive piano flourishes and crashing drums. And I’m not forgetting about the bass again, because either I’m just noticing it more, or it becomes more prominent on the second disc, where some of the songs are a little weirder.
The instrumentals speed up and become a little harder to follow, but none of it ever gets bad. Seriously, if you’re not convinced of the greatness of jazz and this album by the time you reach the last track, “Defiant, Reprise; Homeward,” then you really are hopeless. I’m not trying to insult you, but you may just have to accept that you don’t have the ears and mind for jazz, which is okay. It’s not the ‘50s anymore, there are other things to listen to. I understand Charles Lloyd is likely not an artist of modern times, but rather of the ages, something to be listened to in the future by a new generation of snobs, rather than this generation of hip Zoomers.
Jazz music, although it hasn’t changed much since Miles, still manages to astound and touch me in ways that other art cannot. Some of the highest highs and the lowest lows in music can be found on these records, making you feel like you’ve lived a lifetime when they’re over.
In a hundred years, this album will not be a reflection of 2024, or where music was, the same way that albums like Diamond Jubilee and Wall of Eyes and Funeral for Justice and about fifty others I just can’t think of now will be. Truthfully, it’s been a helluva a year for music, but jazz still remains the most consistently human and timeless genres of the artform, which is why this is still a standout record (to me, at least) even amidst the roaring ‘20s. I don’t think we’ll run out of good music, or good jazz, even though I was unsure back in January.
But, if it is a hundred years later when you read this, and there really is no more good music (which I doubt), then I say this to you…Ha! I lived during a time when they still made great music, and even better, great jazz.