The music suddenly slashes at the eardrums. The musicians, dressed in dashikis or undershirts, are bent into their efforts, sweating, their faces expressionless. Their sounds are warm and swirling, then frenetic, the horns bleating, the drummer flailing, the pianist pouncing intently at the keyboard. The tune is unidentifiable, the melody shattered into ravaged fragments, the rhythms complex and seemingly .beyond grasp.
That was the scene one recent evening at Slug's in Greenwich Village East. The curious and compelling cacophony was being raised by what is known in jazz as "the New Thing." Listening...
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