wrong shape to be a story teller |cs038
[…] The final two CDs are solo works, and can be seen as showcases for particular musicians. […] Something similar can be said about the release by Nate Wooley, who plays trumpet, recorded live on what happens to my birthday, one year ago. Here too the instrument is played like an object, and even sounds at times like an electronic work, which made me think that he might have added some sort of electronica but perhaps not. His playing is alike that of Thieke, the instrument as an object, although occasionally some of the original trumpet sounds sip through. The same problem I had with Thieke is also valid for Wooley: the disc is somewhat too long to hold my interest throughout, but I can imagine that both will join the improvisation circus based on these showcases. […] Frans de Waard (Vital)
Wrong Shape to be a Story Teller (creative sources recordings 038). This is a solo trumpet disc from local trumpet ace Nate Wooley, one of the few cats who is working hard at redefining the vocabulary and sound of the trumpet. Although saxes often get most of the ink in the history of jazz (Bird, Trane, Ornette, Dolphy, Ayler, etc.), it seems to be the trumpet players that really link the history of change (Louis Armstrong to Miles Davis to Don Cherry, Lester Bowie, etc). Over the past decade another bunch of trumpeters have signaled new sounds for that old horn. Europeans like Axel Dörner and Franz Hautzinger, as well as their American counterparts: Greg Kelley and Nate Wooley, each have done their share to expand their unique sound(s). When I first put this on, I thought someone was boiling water for tea, that same sort of whistle. This 51-minute epic solo effort show a variety of different sounds, textures and approaches to the trumpet. Notes are stretched out and bent into different shapes and often it is difficult to tell what instrument Nate is actually playing. You can tell he is concentrating as he works with small fragments of note and bending them in strange way. A most impressive effort. BLG (Downtown Music Gallery)
Wooley, trzydziestojednoletni amerykanski trebacz, od jakiegos czasu dosc
regularnie pojawia si_ w otoczeniu starszych, bardziej utytulowanych muzykow.
Wsrod nich znajduja sie zarowno jazzmeni, jak i wszelkiej masci improwizatorzy
oraz "stylistycznie niezrzeszeni".
If you really want to test yourselves, putting your money where your mouth is during those discussions with your friends about "lowercase", "reductionism" and other by now trendy definitions, look no further than this exquisitely hostile work, where Nate Wooley tackles silence and calmness through a series of postcards from the hell of deviant trumpet. Wrecking all institutional conventions, Wooley extracts pneumatic excursions and electrostatic aromas from the nails of a buggy muteness, at times provoking the listener with machine-like holds/ostinatos and eruptions of charged clumsiness, then inviting the surrounding environment to take his place while he develops the next ideas as soon as they come to mind. Clucks and breath become a challenge to the sophistication of what is "acceptable" in improvisation and certainly Wooley is not the kind of artist likely to look back after his corrosive statements; in this album, even the absence of events becomes dangerous. Massimo Ricci (Touching Extremes)
Recorded live in New York in 2004, this solo trumpet cd by Wooley shares the same pros and cons of Thieke's. The theory of sounds the performer squeezes out of his instrument ranges from an initial theremin-sounding frequency to full-on noise to almost lowercase reductions, and an adventurous ear will find many sparkles of creativity and discipline throughout the work. My problem was that the several fragments, assembled in one 51+-minute track, are just not always strong enough to keep my attention focused. It's part of the game I guess, but I wonder if some more editing would have done this good. Eugenio Maggi (Chain DLK)
Trumpeter Nate Wooley’s Wrong Shape to Be a Storyteller (Creative Sources 038) sits aside a number of fascinating solo trumpet documents in recent years (by Axel Dörner, Franz Hautzinger, and Greg Kelley, among others). Wooley’s document is a single 51-minute track recorded in August 2004. The nature of solo albums can be episodic, especially when one is ambitious enough to have just a single track. But in general there’s a direction to this piece (indeed, one of its ambitions may be, taking a cue from the title, to subvert expectations about conventionally “narrative” playing). There are certainly any number of interesting techniques heard here: pinched squeals, soft static punctuated by sharp rushes of breath, ghosts working the valves, and unsettling scuttling. But what’s really fascinating is Wooley’s propensity to use post-production and editing (at least I think that’s what’s going on) to create some very rude (and provocative) juxtapositions. Some of this brutal noisemaking recalls Kelley’s work in particular (especially his great recent release on Little Enjoyer/Gameboy): blasts of noise serve as segues to different techniques, but occasionally long periods of silence do the same. The combination of glitches, ruptures, and silences, mixed with Wooley’s already considerable instrumental range, make this a really fascinating document. Jason Bivins (Dusted Magazine)
in the farthest reaches of brass experimentation, this CDs isn't designed
for a casual listener. Unvarnished real-time records of solo trumpet manipulation,
together the twitters, shrills, hisses and silences are as far removed
from melodic as you can get. A single track improvisation - Jersey City,
N.J.'s trumpeter Nate Wooley's is a touch under 511/4 minutes, proves
that in the right hands, the textures from three-valve brass can be as
expressive yet as unidentifiable as those that come from reed instruments
or even electronics.
Von NATE WOOLEY und seiner Trompete war anlässlich des Blue-Collar-Trios schon ausgiebig die Rede. Bei Wrong Shape to be a Story Teller (CS 38) zeigt er nun sein ganzes Talent als Alleinunterhalter. Der stehende Fond, auf den er seine mundgeblasenen Schnörkel so akrobatisch aufträgt, ist sicher elektronisch unterfüttert. Das mindert aber nicht die Fragezeichen. Wie macht er das bloß? Enorme Haltetöne, selten solche, die man einer Trompete zutraut, und dann knüllt er so eine Episode mit einer Hand zusammen und steckt sie in die Hosentasche. Nur um einen neuen Anlauf zu nehmen. Oder um minutenlang zu schweigen, so dass man die Vögel tschilpen hört. Was ist daran minimalistisch, wenn jemand derartigte Luftsäulen in den Raum stemmt. Das ist allenfalls monotonistisch, ein gehauchtes Tröööööt folgt dem anderen, manchmal mit schrillen Obertönen akzentuiert oder von Störknacksern oder ganz mikrobisch feinem Fiepen. Und immer wieder mit Zeit für Schweigeminuten. Wooleys Uhr tickt eine ganz und gar löchrige, weitmaschige Stunde. Ist das eine Einübung ins Nirvana, das Koan vom Geräusch einer fallenden Schneeflocke? Nach 40 Minuten huscht wieder ein züngelnder Ton mäuseflink über die weiße Decke. Könnte man sich diese Hörerfahrung nicht einfach bloß denken? Oder ist so ein Taufbad im Stillen Ozean des Klangs, dieses ‚Alas, poor Louis‘ auf dem Trompetenfriedhof, diese Stunde, bei der einem Hören und Sehen vergeht, die Voraussetzung für eine Runderneuerung des Hörsinns? (Bad Alchemy)