Wow. And double ‘wow’. Tuesday had been a dark and gloomy December day but, after darkness, a scintillating star emerged as Emmet Cohen made his London Wigmore Hall debut.
His trio, Cohen on piano, Philip Norris on bass and Kyle Poole on drums, delighted the capacity audience with a dazzling display of phenomenal chops, musical ingenuity and ESP bordering on sci-fi. We were all reminded why U.S. Jazz Journalists had named him ‘Pianist Of The Year’ in 2023 and why he and his trio occupy high perches in the 2024 Downbeat Critics’ Poll.
Yet there’s more to his music than virtuoso technical brilliance alone and it was visible to everyone throughout the entire evening: Emmet Cohen loves all of jazz. The whole of it. Deeply. His performance, while at the cutting edge of modernity, referenced titans like James P. Johnson, Fats Waller, Willy ‘The Lion’ Smith, Jelly Roll Morton, Art Tatum, Duke Ellington and Dizzy Gillespie, with flourishes that recalled Nat Cole, Errol Garner, Oscar Peterson (apologies for any giant omitted) and, towards the end of certain pieces, the entire Basie Organisation in full cry.
It would appear than Cohen holds the view that, because it’s already been done or antique doesn’t mean it’s dead. This man does not ignore the elders. In fact, he raised his own standard by titling an album ‘Future Stride’.
The evening’s recital opened with a roguish intro to Adamson, Gordon and Youmans’ Time On My Hands which unfolded into a bass solo of remarkable quality, some tricksy piano conjuring with time and tempi, a succession of thunderous chords, plucked Steinway strings, a few bars of Ellington’s ‘Rockin’ In Rhythm’ and a series of deceptive endings. Then came Lion Song, Cohen’s tribute to cigar-chewing, derby-hatted, Harlem pianist Willy ‘The Lion’ Smith, lacy and delicate with intimations of stride and ragtime building to a concerted climax of chimes. Enthusiastic applause.
Lion Song was followed by a Jelly Roll Morton tango, wittily introduced, the trio’s dynamic range grabbing the Wigmore Hall’s acoustical advantages to the full and applying tension and release effectively to fuel excitement. Piece after piece, the music flowed on with complex textures, ecstatic block chord passages, emphatic single note accents, multi-note Tatum-esque flourishes and apposite quotes from the masters. Tremendous applause.
Tchaikovsky’s Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy, a rare choice (has anyone played it since the Ellington/Strayhorn album?) was approached with visceral swing, Norris’ muscular bass glancing over Cole Porter’s My Heart Belongs To Daddy, and the Tchaikowsky motif continuing to surface in various shapes and forms over a thorough percussive workout from all three members. Momentous applause.
The trio’s range was extraordinary. A ballad that channelled Debussy, embodying tenderness but avoiding sentimentality. Norris initiating a breathtaking pizzicato bass marathon (did I hear him quote London By Night?) that morphed into a cha-cha-cha version of Tea For Two urged forward by Poole’s stinging rim shots shifting into a bravura finish from Cohen, shattering the melody into shards and effortlessly juggling them to achieve different new forms. Applause verging on hysterical.
Poole’s big moment arrived with ppp brushes whispering over a subdued piano riff, reminding us of Cohen’s skill as an accompanist. An imperceptible lightning switch to sticks led to an impression that recent Storm Bert might be revisiting Wigmore Street, shifting into a two-way conversation between Poole and Cohen that ended with all cymbals spectacularly awash. Applause moves to new level.
Trio treaded respectfully into Ellington and Strayhorn’s Satin Doll, one of those warhorses where, one would imagine, there’s not much new to say. Wrong. Cohen uncovered fresh facets and constructed an edifice of massive chordal riffs into a rip-roaring big band-type finale. Band bows off. Deafening applause.
Encore: a riot of stride filled the hall with the thrust of the relentless left hands, raising visions of dapper ticklers like Waller, Johnson and Willy Lion’ knocking out revellers at Harlem rent parties. Cohen famously lives in an apartment in Harlem and perhaps the imperishable vibe has permeated his soul. Ecstatic applause.
While a sizeable queue of younger folk in the lobby waited patiently to snap selfies with the star, the audience departed into the wintry Wigmore Street smiling, blood coursing with feel-good endorphins.
Final thought: it’s possible that Emmet Cohen has unlocked an important secret about jazz music. It doesn’t have to be introspective or impenetrable. It doesn’t need to be solemn or miserable. Good things happened in the past and it doesn’t hurt to celebrate the grand tradition. In fact, it can be uplifting and an excellent way to make contact with audiences.
