bernie worrell, 1944-2016

bernie worrell.

bernie worrell.

Listening to Bernie Worrell play keyboards was like taking a trip into outer space. Sure, he spent the better of a career perfecting, dissecting and retooling all manners of groove. But at his best, Worrell took flight. The sounds he created left earthbound rhythm behind and went bouncing around the cosmos, unfurling in waves and textures that were distinctly his own.

Take the way his synthesizer work on the Talking Heads classic Burning Down the House blasted through the melody like a theremin at the song’s conclusion or examine his early ‘70s work with Funkadelic, George Clinton’s evil twin counterpart band to Parliament that threw funk into a psychedelic blender. Better still, give a listen to the scores of other projects he has been a part of, from world beat sessions with Fela Kuti to collaborations with former Lexington groove troupe Catawampus Universe. Worrell was always the player that knocked a groove or a melody on its ear with a progressive charge that was orchestral in its expansiveness, elemental in its sense of soul and unendingly playful in its sentiment.

Best of all, Worrell’s appeal was remarkably diverse. As one of the chief musical architects in Clinton’s Parliament ranks, he helped refine funk music for R&B crowds. Witness the still exquisite party anthem Flash Light for proof. But for artsy, post new wave audiences, there was his work with Talking Heads – specifically, the headier groove experiments on 1983’s Speaking in Tongues and the landmark concert film Stop Making Sense made from the record’s subsequent tour. Worrell played Lexington with both bands in 1977 and 1983, respectively.

But his best local viewing came through a series of club shows in the late ‘90s at the long-defunct Lynagh’s Music Club with his Woo Warriors band. Worrell may not have been in prizefighting form at those performances as he so clearly was in Stop Making Sense. But the club appearances, executed as career overviews of sorts, were ripe with animation and invention that presented Worrell without the Clinton sideshow of his Parliament-Funkadelic years.

Lexington also provided a famed non-appearance for the keyboardist. Having been recruited by Chrissie Hynde for the Pretenders’ underrated 1986 comeback album Get Close, Worrell and bassist T.M. Stevens were sacked from the band just prior to its January 1987 performance at Memorial Coliseum with Iggy Pop. Hynde even held court for two days of rehearsals at the venue to work in replacements.

All of these adventures added up to an unrelenting original voice – so much so that when news broke of Worrell’s death yesterday at age 72, the tune I reached for first was the live version of Crosseyed and Painless that served as the finale to Stop Making Sense. It began with sunshine and psychedelia then jumped lines into the most feverish funk Talking Heads ever recorded. Worrell isn’t even that present as a soloist on the performance. But listen to the groove and all the profound color surrounding it. That’s where you heard him – in the engine room making the music soar like a rocketship.

ralph stanley, 1927-2016

ralph stanley, may 2004. photo by herald-leader staff photographer mark cornelison.

ralph stanley, may 2004. photo by herald-leader staff photographer mark cornelison.

My fondest memory of Ralph Stanley goes back to May 2004 when the bluegrass music chieftain was on tour as part of the Great High Mountain Tour. The multi-act, Americana-heavy production had been booked into Rupp Arena that month, but in preparing an advance story on the show, Herald-Leader photographer Mark Cornelison and I were granted atypically broad backstage access for an earlier tour stop in Cincinnati. There, we were allowed to interview and take photos of the dozen or so acts on the bill.

Upon arriving that afternoon, I was led to a table where Jerry Douglas, Buck White and Stanley sat in casual conversation. I turned a tape recorder on and the four of us simply talked – sometimes about music, but largely about topics far removed from the business at hand. When Mark had his gear set up, road manager Bob Neuwirth, who was already busy with myriad other duties, began sifting through schedules to determine which artists were available for impromptu photo sessions and, more importantly, where they could be shot. That’s when Stanley spoke up. “You could take some pictures of me playing banjo in my dressing room if you like.”

The room went silent. Dead silent. Getting to photograph Stanley – the artist who almost single handedly defined the role of the clawhammer banjo in string music, the bluegrass traditionalist who turned a spiritual like O Death into a pop hit of sorts in the wake of its ghostly inclusion in the Coen Brothers O Brother, Where Art Thou? – in such an intimate setting was kind of the bluegrass equivalent of getting to sit in on a sketch session with Picasso. Stanley wasn’t the only major bluegrass elder of the day. But since the death of Bill Monroe in 1996, Stanley was viewed as the music’s most patriarchal figure, an artist nearly as old and practiced as the music itself. So yes, Stanley’s generous offer was accepted and Mark’s resulting photos are represented by the fabulous shot above.

Stanley died yesterday at age 89 and remained an active touring performer until relatively recently. We’ll leave his litany of artistic accomplishments for others to dwell on. Suffice to say, Stanley was a quietly authoritative figure, whether he was leading an ensemble through the gospel affirmation of Angel Band, sounding beyond ghostly within the quietly rapturous singing of O Death or letting the strings fly through Clinch Mountain Backstep. He was a pioneer during the early days of bluegrass, a stately ambassador for its preservation later in life and an innovator and gentleman at all points in between.

when i’m seventy four

paul mccartney.

paul mccartney.

Paul McCartney turns 74 today. If you don’t think that is a cause for celebration, your head hasn’t been in the headlines this year. The first half of 2016 has taken an alarming number of cultural legends from us along with scores slightly less iconic artists that have collectively defined the popular music that has befriended us over the last half century. The fact that Sir Paul is still here as an active performer in the face of such continuous loss is, well, beyond wonderful.

There is no denying that much of McCartney’s post-Beatles output has been uneven, especially in recent decades. But the paths his early songs forged have forever fortified pop music. I don’t know about you, but I don’t think I would be nearly as thrilled with a world without Hey Jude, Yesterday, Eleanor Rigby, Let it Be, Back in the U.S.S.R., The Long and Winding Road, Penny Lane, We Can Work it Out and Blackbird as the one we have with them. Throw in post-Fab Four works like Ram and Band on the Run and, yeah, the bar was pretty well set at a level that a library of later works couldn’t hope to match.

Another anthology set, Pure McCartney, was released last week to commemorate the birthday, and it is probably as good an introduction as any to his non-Beatles work. But the only way to fully appreciate the scope, influence and sheer stylistic vitality of McCartney’s music is to pick up every studio record – Beatles and solo career-wise – he was involved with between 1964 and 1974.

Sir Paul is back in our region on July 10 with a concert at Cincinnati’s US Bank Arena – a visit that offers considerable comfort at a time when so many musical heroes have taken their leave of us. But the most obvious reflection on the day comes from a renewed listen to When I’m Sixty Four, a song remarkably grounded in its steadfast romanticism when the Beatles cut it in 1967: “Give me your answer, fill in a form; mine for evermore. Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I’m sixty-four?”

But it was the song’s final off-the-cuff word that summated the mood of McCartney that still proves so captivating as the future rolls on: “Ho!”

in performance: universal indians with joe mcphee

joe McPhee.

joe McPhee.

After an introductory 17 minute ensemble improvisation full of free jazz fury tempered slightly at times by solo and duo dynamics, Universal Indians tenor saxophonist John Dikeman popped open a can of soda. As taking a few sips, Norwegian bandmates Jon Rune Strom and Tollef Ostvang engaged in comparatively pastoral dialogue on bass and bells, respectively. Seemingly restless, Dikeman then jumped back into a steadily mounting ruckus built around the Ornette Coleman staple Lonely Woman that would bounce, recoil and, at times, serenade with subtle texture over the next half hour.

Remarked one patron after the full hour-long Outside the Spotlight performance drew to a close earlier tonight at the Lyric Theatre and Cultural Arts Center: “So that’s what a can of Ale 8 will do for you.”

Dikeman, a Wyoming native now based in Amsterdam, represented one of two jazz generations at work – one fascinated with the gusto, immediacy and especially volume brewed within a free jazz group. As such, his unamplified solos, especially within the echo-filled environment of the Lyric’s Community Room, possessed earsplitting volume early into the show. Fittingly, Dikeman physically threw himself into such moments, bopping back and forth from the waist up with rock star-like abandon.

In contrast was Universal Indians’ special guest Joe McPhee, a Poughkeepsie mainstay who, at age 76, has been a jazz renegade for nearly 50 years. McPhee’s playing on alto saxophone and the marvelous pocket trumpet wasn’t nearly so forward, physical or obvious. His soloing utilized space, breath and tone far more than Dikeman. But that didn’t stop him from making the pocket trumpet squeal like an approaching siren out of hushed dissonance the two times he played it.

There were also instances where McPhee and Dikeman teamed to embrace melody. Those times were brief and fractured, but they were immensely colorful, as in the moments where the beauty of Lonely Woman’s theme finally arrived like a fashionably late guest. The same held true when McPhee concluded the Coleman tribute with a snippet of South African trumpeter Mongezi Feza’s You Ain’t Gonna Know Me ‘Cos You Think You Know Me, a tune regularly covered by another overseas trio the elder saxophonist often collaborates with, The Thing. With Universal Indians, though, the melody served as a cross-generational coda fueled equally by youthful fire and sagely reflection.

in performance: festival of the bluegrass (saturday afternoon)

town mountain: phil barker, jack devereux, adam chaffins, robert greer and jesse langlais. herald-leader staff photos by rich copley.

town mountain: phil barker, jack devereux, adam chaffins, robert greer and jesse langlais. herald-leader staff photos by rich copley.

“It’s another hot one, isn’t it?”

That was the observation of Town Mountain’s Robert Greer as yesterday afternoon’s temps shot near the ‘90s at the Kentucky Horse Park for the Festival of the Bluegrass. The heat may have sent many patrons scrambling for the shade, but the sounds served up for the remaining faithful combined for a remarkable showcase of two bands representing two string music generations.

The ascension of Town Mountain as one of the festival’s premiere acts was demonstrated in a set that emphasized the North Carolina’s quintet’s obvious strengths – specifically, a rugged ensemble charge (showcased at once during the show opening Tick on a Dog), ample stylistic dexterity (the honky tonk drive of Whiskey With Tears) and individual firepower (Greer’s joyous vocals, Phil Barker’s quick-witted mandolin picking).

Curiously, the ingenuity of Town Mountain’s set came down to two cover tunes. The first, the Grateful Dead by way of Johnny Cash classic Big River was all jovial country reinvention while the Cash by way of Sting gem I Hung My Head, with Lawrence County bassist Adam Chaffins on lead vocals, ignited the country core of a pop nugget, transforming it into a woeful Western epic that equaled classics like The Long Black Veil.

the seldom scene: rickie simpkins, lou reid, dudley connell and fred travers.

the seldom scene: rickie simpkins, lou reid, dudley connell and fred travers.

Yesterday afternoon also sported the return of The Seldom Scene, a festival mainstay and, until last year, the event’s Saturday evening headliner (Town Mountain now has that distinction). But with the addition of banjoist Rickie Simpkins on banjo, the band added a new dimension to an already diverse sounding unit, not to mention a welcome boost of new artistic blood.

The band’s three vocalists – guitarist Dudley Connell, dobroist Fred Travers and mandolinist Lou Reid – boldly spelled out the range of the current Scene lineup. Connell offered a sobering and solemn reading of Blue Diamond Mine while Travers’ high tenor singing brought new life to What Am I Doin’ Hangin’ ‘Round (a tune that reaches back to the band’s 1972 debut album, Act 1). But Reid pretty much owned the show with a galvanizing vocal lead on the plaintive ballad I Couldn’t Find My Walkin’ Shoes, a wild harmonic wail under Connell during the tipsy waltz From the Bottom of the Glass and nimble mandolin runs during a white hot Sugarfoot Rag that sent Simpkins over to fiddle. The combined firepower suggest a hearty renaissance for The Seldom Scene may be at hand.

tom gray and valerie smith.

tom gray and valerie smith.

In between the two titan bands during the afternoon was Missouri native Valerie Smith and her group Liberty Pike. Smith took perhaps the boldest chances of any act on the festival bill in terms of repertoire and sheer vocal stamina, both of which reflected plenty of genre hopping.

The set list was hit and miss. Some of the curiosities of her show, like George Harrison’s Here Comes the Sun, proved an ill fit. But other, more extreme choices such as the 1975 Jessie Colter country hit I’m Not Lisa revealed a surprisingly fertile framework for strong harmonizing. For her wildest choice, Smith and bassist Tom Gray (curiously, a founding member of The Seldom Scene) soared out of bluegrass altogether for the jazzy stride of Buzzed that made for a fun and audacious festival diversion.

in performance: festival of the bluegrass (friday afternoon)

shawn lane and gaven largent of blue highway performing yesterday at the festival of the bluegrass. herald-leader staff photos by rich copley.

shawn lane and gaven largent of blue highway performing yesterday at the festival of the bluegrass at the kentucky horse park. herald-leader staff photos by rich copley.

The elephant in the room was more like one stomping about in the campground of the Kentucky Horse Park yesterday as Blue Highway took the stage for its afternoon set at the Festival of the Bluegrass. The elephant, in this instance, was the absence of dobroist and co-founder Rob Ickes, one of modern bluegrass music’s most recognized and awarded instrumentalists, who split amicably with the band late last year. Blue Highway guitarist and co-vocalist Tim Stafford wasted no time in addressing the question of “Where’s Rob?” But the explanation became more of an introduction for 20 year old Gaven Largent, Ickes’ replacement.

The Virginia native turned out to be quite complimentary to the rest of the Blue Highway lineup, which consisted exclusively of founding members. But it was also a wisely paced introduction. During the afternoon set, Largent largely sidestepped the kind of hearty soloing that distinguished Ickes and opted more for a natural integration into the band’s song structures, whether he was weaving his playing around the breaks of banjoist Jason Burleson and fiddler Shawn Lane or fortifying the leisurely paced Just to Have to a Job.

Largent wasn’t the only new face in Blue Highway yesterday. Daniel Salyer sat in for bassist Wayne Taylor who is recuperating from cardiac bypass surgery. Salyer more than stepped up to the plate by adding to the gospel quartet harmonies of Bill Monroe’s Wicked Path of Sin and supplying accomplished high tenor lead vocals to covers of the Stanley Brothers’ Little Maggie and Flatt & Scruggs’ The Old Home Town.

russell moore and jerry cole of IIIrd tyme out.

russell moore and jerry cole of IIIrd tyme out.

In contrast, a following set by Russell Moore and IIIrd Tyme Out, a longtime Festival of the Bluegrass favorite, was largely business as usual.

Designed as a celebration of sorts for the band’s 25th anniversary, the set drew upon songs vintage (the hard labor lullaby Moundsville Pen from IIIrd Tyme Out’s self titled 1991 debut album, which Moore curiously said “set the tone” for the quintet’s music) as well as numerous tunes from 2015’s It’s Almost Tyme. Highlights included I’m Leaving You and Fort Worth Too, which underscored the tireless drive of Moore’s singing, and the expert Wayne Benson instrumental Spindale, with the latter dispensing swiftly animated but unhurried runs on mandolin.

dara wray of blue mafia.

dara wray of blue mafia.

The Missouri band Blue Mafia, making its Festival of the Bluegrass debut, closed out the afternoon and early evening program with the day’s most traditionally minded performance, right down to the dark contours of Your Last Breath, a eulogy mandolinist and co-vocalist Dara Wray dubbed “a love song.”

The playing and harmonies were all crisply delivered, but Blue Mafia still has a ways to go in establishing a musical identity of its own. While it was refreshing to hear the band avoid the pseudo country accents that plague many young bluegrass acts, what was on display yesterday was largely perfunctory. As amiable and adept as the performance was, one hopes the band can develop a voice of its own to stand out more in a bluegrass field that the festival yesterday reminded us was still as stylistically diverse as it was vast.

dave swarbrick, 1941-2016

dave swarbrick.

dave swarbrick.

The ’60 and ‘70s were peppered with innovators whose contributions to contemporary music purposely strayed from commercial visibility. To those that championed the popular sounds of the day, such quiet giants went largely unnoticed. But to more ardent fans that followed the stylistic path such work forged, their status quickly turned heroic.

One such pioneer was Dave Swarbrick, who passed away with little more than a nod from mainstream media on June 3 at age 75.

From the ‘60s onward, Swarbrick helped redefine British folk music, especially through electric innovations that triggered a genre unto itself, British folk-rock. He was a world class fiddler, one as comfortable with a somber ballad as he was with a dance tune. But it was his spirit that spoke volumes – a hearty, jovial attitude with gypsy-esque fervor that beamed through his playing and especially his singing.

Though introduced to British audiences at the dawn of the ‘6os with the Ian Campbell Folk Group, it was the music he created through two lasting alliances that established the breadth of Swarbrick’s remarkable musicality. The first was the duo he co-led with guitarist/singer Martin Carthy, one Britain’s most learned folk torchbearers. The second was the vanguard folk-rock band Fairport Convention which he helped pilot during the ‘70s through myriad personnel changes and a steadfast devotion to a sound that equally embraced folk tradition and electric mischief.

I was lucky enough to see Swarbrick in both settings. With Carthy, he was all wily grace, a strictly instrumental adornment to his partner’s folk troubadour profile. Given how the two stressed guitar/fiddle arrangements, Swarbrick’s playing was ripe with subtle colors that were often antique but never austere. Their performances possessed an air of timelessness, even when their repertoire would spill over into contemporary tunes.

With Fairport, Swarbrick was a lit fuse – a player that reveled in the electric possibilities that rock arrangements offered him, including the opportunity to open up as vocalist. Singing was never what Swarbrick was known for, but it was one of the true delights of his music. His final recordings with Fairport, the underrated and hard-to-find trio of The Bonny Bunch of Roses (1977), Tippler’s Tales (1978) and the sleeper concert album Farewell Farewell (1979) were equal parts history lesson and pub crawl revelry led by distinctive, intuitive and immensely animated vocals.

Swarbrick battled emphysema for many years (perhaps not surprisingly, as most performance photos from the ‘70s revealed a cigarette dangling from his lips). While it never deteriorated to the degree the Daily Telegraph in London stated in 1999 by prematurely publishing his obituary, Swarbrick underwent a double lung transplant in 2004 but was still touring a decade later.

Recommended listening, outside of numerous Fairport and Swarbrick/Carthy albums, includes the 1981 solo album Smiddyburn, an instrumental session that reunited the full 1970 Fairport lineup (including Richard Thompson) and encapsulated British folk in all its traditionally rooted finery and electric finesse. Like Swarbrick himself, the music sailed through the decades with a love of heart, home and history.

guy clark, 1941-2016

guy clark.

guy clark.

A few years back, I discussed an ode to vegetable lore called Homegrown Tomatoes with its composer, Guy Clark. To ears perhaps unfamiliar with the works of such a masterful Texas songwriter, the yarn would seem a novelty. But Clark was in earnest when he outlined his intent with the tune.

“It’s a love song.”

It was, too – an unassuming and poetically plain-speaking love token. It’s just that the object of the author’s affection came from the garden and was edible. The design, though, was typical of Clark’s sense of songwriting. It was worldly in a way that songsmiths like John Prine have long been. But it was also conversational on an everyman level. He could be singing of the rigors in cosmopolitan stress (L.A. Freeway), cross generational relations (Desperados Waiting for the Train) or simple homesickness and regret (Dublin Blues). Clark’s music wonderfully examined the many faces of the human condition but ways that were wholly accessible.

Such songwriting intent would seem to fall under the definition of country music, which would make perfect sense as Clark resided in Nashville for over 40 years. But Clark was also a Texas native. It was that heritage, not the one offered by the headquarters of corporate country, that guided his writing. So did the company Clark kept, especially the renegade songsmith Townes Van Zandt. Clark’s songs were never as dark or desperate as those of longtime pal Van Zandt, but both shared a sense of sagely narrative told with simple, unspoiled candor. In terms of imagery and emotive detail, their songs helped define a generation of Lone Star troubadours and, in turn, a successive legion of writers from around the country.

News of Clark’s death at age 74 spread quickly today, so much so that when I commenced a phone interview with Gillian Welch this afternoon, the impact of his passing was very fresh.

“I’m just thinking about Guy so much,” she said. “So I’m probably going to be a tiny bit distracted.”

The song that came to mind first after hearing of Clark’s death was Boats to Build. Aside from being the title tune to a 1992 album that largely reintroduced Clark to a booming Americana audience, the song nicely summed up the kind of earnest but unfrilly affirmations that often populated Clark’s later music.

“Sails are just like wings,” it went. “The wind can make ’em sing. Songs of life, songs of hope, songs to keep your dreams afloat.”

“I’ve been doing this for 40 years and sometimes you think you’ve had all the good ideas you’re going to have,” Clark told me prior to an appearance at the 2011 Master Musicians Festival in Somerset. But I know there is always something new out there. That’s what keeps me doing this. Songwriting is something you never get through. You never get to be the best there is. You never get finished. There is always one more song.”

in performance: sturgill simpson

Sturgill Simpson performing last night at the Opera House. Herald-Leader staff photograph by Rich Copley.

Sturgill Simpson performing last night at the Opera House. Herald-Leader staff photograph by Rich Copley.

“I know this is an opera house, but you don’t have to be so formal,” remarked Sturgill Simpson early into a sold out two evening run last night at, fittingly, the Opera House. Truth to tell, the invitation was probably a necessity. The capacity crowd acted liked it didn’t really know what to expect when the program kicked off and it was certainly left scratching its head when the show was over.

Musically, the Jackson-born, Versailles-reared Simpson’s game plan revolved around traditional country. That was most apparent in his singing which, despite all his frequent comments to the contrary, seemed fixated on the deep outlaw drawl of Waylon Jennings. That proved a potent reference last night as Simpson regularly chose instances to pump up the country tenor of his singing to amply dramatize a verse or chorus. The drawback? Such heavy vocal punctuation, which didn’t seem apparent during the few times he spoke to the audience, tended to steamroll over the narratives of his songs. In Simpson’s case, such a drawback weighed in more when one factored in the depth and detail of his songwriting.

Backing him was a seven member unit that included a three member New Orleans horn section. Here is where things got really interesting. As rooted as Simpson seemed to be to country tradition, he was also was industrious enough to shift the music to areas of Memphis and Muscle Shoals style soul in a way similar to what fellow Kentuckian Dwight Yoakam did during the mid ‘90s.

But as flexible as the music surrounding Sturgill’s sense of country soul was, his repertoire turned out to be surprisingly regimented. He opened with five selections from his 2013 solo debut album High Top Mountain that relished in vintage country settings typlified by the show opening shuffle and dash within Sitting Here Without You and the more tempered ramble of Time After All.

After a cover of the country staple You Don’t Miss Your Water was performed as a slice of Muscle Shoals-inclined R&B and served as an interlude, Simpson dug in deep with complete performances of his 2014 sophomore album Metamodern Sounds in Country Music and the new A Sailor’s Guide to Earth. Both turned loose Estonian guitarist/pedal steel ace Laur Joamets, who piloted Metamodern’s trippier accents (specifically the wiry, outer space squeals that wormed in an out of It Ain’t All Flowers) as well as much of the more nautically themed father-son fare from A Sailor’s Guide that tossed the music much closer to soulsville (in particular, the groove saturated Brace for Impact and the torchier Oh Sarah).

Everything coalesced – or collided, depending on your tolerance for the more rough-hued tone Simpson adopted in performance as opposed on record – on the album’s vitriolic finale Call to Arms, where vocals, guitar and brass meshed into a brassy rampage of rock and funk.

Then came the biggest surprise. Nothing – no encore, no real spoken adieu, just an instantaneous lights-up and a quick stage exit. A few patrons seemed miffed at Simpson bucking such a tired and expected performance rite. But given the scope, drive and sheer stylistic might of this 110 minute country and soul blitz, no one in the house had any justifiable reason to feel jilted.

Sturgill Simpson performs again at 8:30 tonight at the Opera House. The performance is sold out.

isao tomita, 1932-2106

isao tomita.

isao tomita.

I’ve always been of the belief that full acceptance and appreciation of any form of music isn’t achieved until it is communicated by an artist of the listener’s own generation. You can study the past masters and try your best to understand their histories and instincts. But it’s not until someone has absorbed a style of music, reshaped it with their own interpretive spin and offered it to the ears of their audience as something new that musical traditions truly connect, live and flourish.

That has been the case numerous times with me, especially with jazz. But one very specific instance was the work of Japanese electronic music pioneer Isao Tomita, who died last week at the age of 84. It wasn’t so much Tomita’s immensely animated creations on synthesizers that struck me at first, but rather his interpretive skill. While he would go on to create masterful compositions of his own, his 1974 debut album, Snowflakes Are Dancing, opened the doors for me to the music of Claude Debussy. Within Tomita’s world of keyboards, Claire de Lune sang like a comic lullaby, Reverie became a quiet but enormously emotive meditation and the gorgeous Engulfed Cathedral came alive the way some fantasy creation of Hollywood would, defying time and invention in every note. Generations have been enchanted by Debussy for ages, but Tomita made such music resonate with me by sending French impressionism straight into outer space.

Tomita would devote subsequent albums to the works of Mussorgsky, Stravinsky, Holst, Ravel and, in a wonderful but overlooked 1982 recording of The Grand Canyon Suite – Grofe. But it was the reinvention of Debussy over 40 years ago on Snowflakes Are Dancing that proved a gateway to a glorious, but previously unexplored musical world. For that alone, Tomita will always be a hero.

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