Omri Mor review

Jazz. And Jerusalem. For most of us, the last probably wouldn't be the first city we'd think of, in a word association test. Yet, by all reports the Israeli scene is thriving. Omri Mor, who's just shy of thirty, has been playing most of his life. Since the age of seven, to be precise, which puts him in a kind of Mozartian category. For a young Jewish man, his musical tastes are surprisingly catholic. Not surprising, given the breadth and depth of his studies, which continue to embrace both jazz and classical. He is also still under the tutelage of oud player, Nino Elmaghribi Bitton.

The result of  all these influence is something he's branded 'Andaloujazz', which neatly describes his alchemical tinkerings, which draw on flamenco and other oeuvres, but principally on Andalusian (or Andalousian) music. If you're like me, when you hear that word you think of Spain, but the music doesn't conform quite as neatly to borders as politics insists. It's an arcane topic and I'm no scholar or musicologist, but I gather it's a form that emanated from a golden age in Spain (not the Siglo de Oro, but golden nonetheless), when Judaism, Christianity and Islam, not to mention their followers, coexisted harmoniously. But Spain, of course, wasn't quite Spain, as such. It was Al-Andalus; medieval Muslim Iberia. It was from there, as I understand it, that a confluence of culture fanned out across North Africa. And now, it's come to Australia, in a shiny, new, hybridised vehicle. It turns out it's not only Moorish, but Mor-ish. And, make no mistake, moreish.

With tunes like Shahar (Dawn), OM makes no bones about his obsession with the Andalousian, improvising on, in, through, around, over and under traditional melodies, rhythms, and structures. It opens with a few dramatic chords, before lapsing into rather more pensive piano meanderings. The chords cut through, every now and again, like the sharp rays of the emerging sun, stinging weary eyes and illuminating everything afresh. Noam David pitters and patters his way 'round his kit, while Melbourne-born bassist Simon Starr winces almost comically, clearly feeling every harmonic. Both David and Starr are entwined with Mor, each seeming to push and prod the other to reach higher; venture just a little further out on that limb. And each rises to the challenges, making for thrilling unpredictability–that sense of precariousness , risk and imminence felt so keenly as a tingle on the nape of the neck–that's the very essence of improvisation.

There are times during each set when the trio nudge each other right to the edge of a cliff and, at the very moment one or other is liable to topple, and only then, do they pull back just enough to regain balance and rediscover their starting-point. It's almost a tantric energy that results; spontaneous musical combustion; all at once revitalising, liberating and exhilarating. And when Mor starts using keys and strings to emulate a gimbri (it goes by various names and spellings, but is an Arabic, three-stringed, plucked bass lute), or similar, you really know you're in the presence of some new kind of genius. I'm talking Art Tatum. Yes, same breath. Mor seems to be developing his own techniques, at times almost throwing is right hand at the keyboard.

It was the first time I'd heard many of these tunes, so the list may not be comprehensive, sequential or quite right, but there were other tunes like Zarka, Ram El Maya, Sika and Zidane, a richly evocative melody that conjures images of sultry, almond-eyed, olive-skinned, henna-tattooed, bejewelled bellydancers (well, it does for me) and takes one on a mesmerising journey almost as epic as Lawrence's. The trio makes it sound as if jazz and Andalousian music were made for each other: the intermarriage is seamless; swinging that familiar swirl of melody and rhythm the Arab world originally adapted from Greek modes. David punctuates with kick-drum; Starr bursts forth with funky fountains of cascading bass notes; Mor plays pure jazz, in between emulating lines that might traditionally be rendered on a kamaan (violin), qanoon (zither), nay (flute), or oud. It's passé to contend this music is a healing cultural bridge. Suffice to say, if politics were to cross-pollinate in like fashion, peace, in the Middle East and beyond, would be more than a pipe-dream.      

You and the Night and the Music if, of course, more familiar to our Western ears. At least, many of us will be au fait with the tune, if not the writers (Arthur Schwartz & Howard Dietz, who may or may not be related to our own Natalie Dietz, a sublime vocalist). Beginning sensitively, as if in reverent homage to an evergreen standard, the trio gradually swung into some real action, playing off each other as only musicians with veritably subliminal affinity can do. 

Marakesh enshrines the danceability of music, through a light, bright melodic motif, suffused with rhythm. Smiles already on dials broadened a little more still.

The Omri Mor Trio is one of the most intoxicating things to happen in world jazz. Ever.

Review by Lloyd Bradford Syke

Image By Yves Moch (Own work) [CC-BY-SA-3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)], via Wikimedia Commons