Prepping for the liner notes, I’m spinning the early mixes of the latest Bruce Forman Trio album. The Book of Forman Two, I think it’s called. Smitty Smith is on drums and damn, he and Bruce seem to be pushing this guitar trio thing into unknown territory. Smitty is a rolling and tumbling polyrhythm machine and its like a canvas for Forman’s deft stokes, big and fat, that float out in front. (That is some sloppy mixed metaphoring, I know.) I think that’s Alex Frank in the middle, keeping the bass line simple, walking here, measuring time there, sometimes carrying the melody. I’m no expert on jazz guitar trios, not at all, but this sure sounds unlike any of them I’ve heard before. Bruce just might have something different here. I grooves, it swings, it tears it up. My right foot has been dancing on an imaginary kick pedal, my left on the high hat, trying to keep up with what’s happening. The music has insinuated itself here too, in the prose, sentences flowing like Forman solos, punctuated by Smitty dropping bombs. I’d expect this disc to be getting a lot of play on jazz radio. This’ll keep your eyes wide open on the ride home. Might even get you a speeding ticket.
No idea when the album will be released, but in the meantime the Bruce Forman Trio with Smitty Smith will be at Viva Cantina in Burbank (right here in Los Angeles) soon. Like real soon, and often. I love Viva Cantina, so exquisitely old school Toluca Lake, horses and cowboys and rednecks and rockabilly and jazz hipsters mingling over booze and Mexican grub, heckling the band. Bob Wills, Patsy Cline and John Pisano. Spade Cooley jokes. Hacking laughter turns to coughing fits. I mean what’s not to love. Across the street is a hockey rink. Next door is the equestrian center. The fragrance of road apples and stale cow hand cigarettes, the taste of good whiskey. Mexican girls with pompadours so high they’re illegal in several states. Somebody smoking something funny out back. If I ever get off my jaded can and begin telling people about shows again, you’ll read about the when here.
And the last note of the last number fades as I finish this sentence. Talk about perfect.