The Syndicate

I listened to the new Esperanza Spalding album this morning - which is not usually my kind of morning mixtape, but whatev - and dayum, really digging this track.

Everyone quickly broke away after that sinister mess of a scene, during this new and suitable interim. Miss Holiday regained her consciousness and started pushing everyone aside, yelling at them 'I told you so! I told you so!', as she went to take care of her beloved Fleck, who seemed to miraculously rebound, although exhibiting signs of dizziness, every sentence he was trying to utter coming off as tad delirious. They took off together, presumably to tender to Fleck's wounds and then maybe also smootchie-smootch. Hiromi went to climb up a wall and take a nap hanging upside down. All the reed players decided to go outside for a forgetful smoke, although Mingus was kindly requested beforehand to put his bass away. The Host sneaked out to go strangle some mafia.

So everyone left, except, of course, good ol' Vince, yet again eager to investigate some more on his own, after picking up the last time on those fortuitous signals and thus being able to lead the others on the right path. But he was soon malcontented with no new findings whatsoever, so he went back to sulk at the piano and waltz his fingers on some random arpeggios. Soon he was even more turned off by the quietus and the loneliness in the room, so he took his vintage Emerson portable TV out of his bag and wiggled the antennas in search of a good channel. Luckily the Fast Show had started not long ago and he was able to catch a rerun of one of his favourite skits from it and chuckle at it for a while.



'Ha ha ha ha haaaaaaa', Vince kept chortling incessantly, watching the episode all the way through and stuffing his face with peanuts.
Without Vince sensing anything, a figure reached out its hand towards him.
'BOO', shrieked Miles behind him, grabbing his shoulder and knockin' Vince's socks off.
'Oh my heck!' Vince bawled. 'You scared the bejesus out of me! Are you nuts, crazy ol' cat?'
'Hehe, sorry, man', Miles snickered and helped himself with some of them peanuts. 'Whatcha watchin' there? Who this fellow, spitting inwards? I dig his style. Reminds me of my Tutu days...'

Socky began to fidget, seeing them both so laid back and worriless. Never a good sign, especially during the Night. He checked again his death note to see if anything was bound to happen, but was shocked to find the next page, following the one with Tito's name on it, ripped apart. 'This can't be good', he muttered and wondered who was destined to fall next.

He would not have to wait much longer for his answer. 'aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!!!' a death cry pierced through the hall's acoustics. Vince spilled the bag of peanuts once again.

Every musician, save for Holiday and Fleck, returned in the hall at that very moment, having heard the noise and looking real spooked themselves.
'What the hell was that?!' asked Potter.
'Where did it came from?' Coltrane wondered unnerved.

'AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!' a second, irate cry was heard. The voice sounded different, though.
'Ok, this is hella creepy', Miles squeamishly said.
'Is everyone here? Who's missing?' Coltrane wondered again.
'Anyone that's not here is probably confirmed not here', Coleman wisely ascertained.
'Fleck and Holiday! And Hiromi!' shouted Vince with a worried look.
'Oh no, I'm here', said Hiromi.

Their restless palaver was broken off by Fleck storming on stage, with a berserk look on his face.
'Where is she?!' he cried. 'I passed out again, while she tried to apply some bandages on my head, and then she was gone and my bandages had "HA HA" written on them! Who did this?! What have you done with her?! Murderers! Murderers!!'
Nobody could or would say anything.

'Ok, I'm more relaxed now', the Host said, returning besides Socky, with a cup of joe in his hand.
'Where have you been?' Socky asked and started to fill him in on the dreadful news. Before the Host could say anything, a drop splashed in his coffee, followed by another one, red of colour, hitting the edge of the cup. A creaky noise soon made everyone turn their heads up. And there levitated Miss Holiday, making a slow flying entrance from the upper shadows of the opera-like concert hall towards the stage, the way you see it happen in mega concerts or flashy ceremonies, except that one extra piece of supporting rope was wrapped around her like a collar, in ways that it wasn't supposed to be. The suspended swing stopped right atop the stage, before the very eyes of a Fleck crumbling away on his knees and everyone else panicking.

'Oh that's just great... dripping right all over the kit... someone clean that up right now!' Fletcher found reason to complain.

===

31.X.2014

"Reassuring every listen is the fact that Seven Days of Falling is one of E.S.T.'s most beautiful works. And I mean the usually understated kind of beauty, for this album could sound a bit fragile and unfateful, since it follows through with the same style, consistency and layout as the albums in the Gagarin - Susie Soho - Snow sequence - whilst, to its slight mischance, the following work, Viaticum, would shape things to a whole new level. But surely enough, it rarely happens, if ever, for me to relisten to this album without feeling affected by it in a wholly and wholesome way. Sometimes it even brings back precise memories, like listening to it in a train, while melancholically staring out the window, the endless tundra flowing before my eyes, or in my room on a rainy, unhastened day.

By now, I must be clearly referencing the album's emotional weight the most - and indeed it does have some gorgeous, hazy, contemplative ballads, like 'Ballad for the Unicorn' or 'Believe Beleft Below', but even the more upbeat songs tend to have a highly melodic, reverberating, soft theme at heart (the title track or 'Did They Ever Tell Cousteau'), even if it's amped up by more new interesting textures and dialogues, the way Susie Soho was also mostly envisioned. Finally, pieces such as the first half of O.D.R.I.P. or 'Elevation of Love' blossom into a far more raw, technical or euphoric state - but the core emotional aspect is just as strong and uplifting for me."

Which of these words should be included in the official Syndicate lexicon?

Sockslip
8
S~V~S (2), MovingPictures07 (3), Miles Davis (4), Chris Potter (5), DrWilgy (6), Silverwolf (7), Bill Dixon (9), Charles Mingus (10) 80%
Sockgaffe
2
Ricochet (1), Ornette Coleman (8)

The band switched their sheets and started playing 'Gloomy Sunday', something to finally accommodate Miss Holiday, now that she was the only voice left in this project, but the musicians all took a dreary, tempo-draggy, sobbing take on it, still shocked by the news of Fats' death. 'Oh for Heavens' sake', Fletcher lamented, 'this ain't no freakin' requiem. You have to feel it, but you don't have to drown it in tears.'

'I'm sorry Mr. Bitter Man', Holiday complained, 'but I ain't in no mood to sing this any other way, when my heart can barely stop tremblin'. Fats was one of us and I can't believe that he's gone. I also couldn't believe my eyes, seeing him and some of you fighting so much last time he was still around. Shame on you, Trane, for pushing it so far, when he obviously didn't do nuthin' wrong.'
'Yeah', Fleck added, 'I definitely think Trane took it personally, couldn't control himself and did something dreadful afterwards. I say he must go, in order to cleanse this atmosphere of further disenchantment.'
'Buuullshiieeeeet, wrapped up in a bullsuit', said Mingus. 'You fella are quite the fools, thinking I can't tell sad jam and flim-flam apart. You praising the man a while ago, Billie, was just what the crooked hearted folks among us needed to go and torture the poor man to death. You're no better than us, you didn't do nuthin' yourself to stop them bickering a while ago.'
'How dare you!’ screamed Holiday.
'You must be gone mad, sir', Fleck objected, 'pickin' on a woman's feelings like that, and I find that you must be the baddest of them all.'
'What say you, my good man, to such accusations?’ jested Miles moreover.
'Ludicrous', snapped Mingus.
'Ludacris!!' shouted Coleman and started angrily blasting the song of his people on his sax.
'Look, brothers and sisters', Coltrane finally took the mic, 'I'm actually just as aggrieved as you are by Fats' demise, but let me tell you somethin', he was genuinely shady and I told him that straight to his face. If you think I could not handle an honest fistfight, in front of everyone, and would instead resort to any devilish backstabbing, whoa boy, you are downright crazy. He was a brother, but brothers fight too sometimes and it doesn't make me any less sad to see him go.' Everyone went silent for a bit afterwards, some reminiscing once more of Fats, others hiding their angry looks from one another.

'Ok, so what now?' asked Potter.
'How about taking care of the phonies around here who still can't keep a beat, even in this leaden rhythm of a song?’ Fletcher suggested.
'Now see', Coltrane kept at it, 'I always say it like I mean it and this time around I'm feeling that Fleck and Bublé just disliked each other during our last take for the sake of showing malice and charm the rest of us. But Fleck's frying pan there is just as oddly tuned to my ears as Bublé's saccharine lulls were. We should get rid of him next.'
'Yeah, man, not to mention he's pickin' on Ming over there, which is just bizzaro, considering that Ming did the right thang, telling that wicked crooner off', added Miles.
'Word to the Mingus, cuz Mingus is the word', Mingus professed.
'Oh, don't you dare pick on my man!' Holiday acted outraged.
'Oh Miss Holiday, I think I'm in love with you', Fleck reacted suddenly enamored. 'You know I'm all good inside.'
'Hell, don't we have some lovebirds in here...' Mingus mocked them both.
At which point Holliday fainted and Fleck rushed to grab her, safely catching her before she collapsed on the ground. And once he let go of her, for others to carry her to a chair, he rushed towards Mingus with infinite hatred.
'Oh boy, do we have some prima donnas in here or what', Fletcher rolled his eyes and waved his hands in disgust towards the audience, although the Host was rather enjoying it all with a glass of wine and smoking a cigar, while Socky was leaning forwards, biting his nails with a sense of both excited and aghast look.

Unfortunately, Fleck soon found out that it's not such a wise choice to attack a Mingus who can swing his bass at you, especially when you don't have your shovel of a banjo to even attempt to parry with it. And Mingus proved indeed quite acrobatic with his instrument, flinging it at light speed and smacking Fleck right in the head, sending him to kiss the ground himself, without anyone reacting this time fast enough to catch him.
Most rushed to Fleck, but Mingus just put aside his bass, which wasn't even that banged up from the impact, and rolled himself another cigar, saying only 'Fool'.

'He ded?' inquired Hiromi.
All eyes turned towards the Host, who first checked Socky's death note for confirmation, then replied 'Not yet'.

'Ok, so what now?' asked Potter again.
'Look, everyone...' Fleck shocked everyone by starting to speak as he was getting up, little by little, reaching for his stool. 'I'm going to say this to you as clear as possible... the banjo has a voice of its own and you just need to tune your ears to it better... and learn to go with the flow... we can't abide by the same "standards" every time we want to play something... where would we be nowadays if Bach's Lute Sonatas would never get transcribed... if you couldn't turn Chopin’s Mazurkas from something as complex and spread out as a two-staff plejade to four strings... if 'Round Midnight would never get transposed for all voices, instruments and souls alike... if the banjo comes off as rasp, it doesn't mean it's not coming from the heart nonetheless... I'm not trying to be disingenuous here, people... as fur opertunisict, i dont see hwo i am hlodnig ayn advntnage righ now...whoa...' he stopped for a second, shaking his head a bit. 'Sorry, it seems that blow is finally reaching to my language cortex a bit... anyway, my playing is exactly how I play anytime... and I think everyone deep down inside can change the way he's playing... you can tune your instrument a fair bit, you can add more licks or trills to it... but at the end of the day, you're still going to reveal what you are really trying to expr-'
'OK, let's get rid of Tito, then, he hasn't said a thing as of late, I checked his notes earlier and this rhythms are all wrong for our repertoire and he's rather been more worried not to have any part of kit smashed up during the kerfuffle that just happened', said Vince.
'ture', said Coleman.
'true', said Potter.
'ok, then', said Coltrane.

The Host's cigar fell to the floor, as his jaw dropped with astonishment at the turn of events, to which Socky mentioned 'Yep, here it is written... Tito's time of death is written earlier than Fleck's...'

===

09.IV.2011

"On Good Morning Susie Soho, the trio forays deeper into its creative pool, in order to draw out and stylize their classic sound even more. Each player's individually grows bolder and more personal, particularly M.O. experimenting with texture and off-beat mood swinging rhythms, D.B.'s solos starting to vibrate off the chart, while E.S. keeps touching the keys in search for new sensibilities or wits, sometimes with a faint echo of his joyful humming surfacing.

The album stretches its length and scope, by which the usual blend of hot and cold, blitzy and ballady, becomes more sustained and conceptual. When slow, the pieces develop a halo of resonance, flutter and levity; when they're in gear, they get syncopated, effervescent and with a touch of oddball dynamic to them. Such, in a nutshell, is The Wraith, for instance: classic progressive E.S.T. thrill ride, with a blend of electronics and morphing effects, mostly on drums and piano; ghastly, eerie rhythms and acoustic forms to begin with, until they settle on a fix recitative and keep add more layers and tremble to it. After its culmination, it all quickly withdraws into the spectre-like soundforms it evolved from..."
Tito Puente has been kicked out of the band. His real name was Sorsha.

Her role song was 'The Wraith' off Good Morning Susie Soho and she was...


Is it now Night 2.
You have 24 hours to send me any relevant PMs.
There will also be a Night poll in which you can vote for fun. As can everyone, including non-players.

Missing votes: Tito Puente

Votes in grey are votes that moved.

Disregard that Holliday is highlighted, I left that cell selected by accident.

Hey guys, what's up? We good in here?

John Coltrane wrote:Look at the gender guide Miles can't be Zebra.

Gender guide is for the socks, not the real persons behind them.

One would think that, after being subjected to such a gruesome take, to the point of having to bicker with each other in order to flesh out the culprit of their disaccord, the musicians would quickly take their respiro opportunity with great relief, away from the tension-filled stage and their worn out sticks, plucked out strings, sweat smudged keys or condensation-filled reeds.

And while a few did indeed contentedly step away from the platform, reaching for their smokes or their booze inside their coats and strolling outside the hall, some remained engaged, still under the influence of the first take's denouement that they'd witnessed, each vouching that they did their part or shared the sentiment of getting rid of the scheming songster, but wary of those who did not act upon it. Some even of those who might have done it in full knowledge and in subversive, backstabbing fashion.

Miles was keeping his shades on and his eyebrow raised at everyone, not keen to hear out anyone's solo brag over his own, which seemed to bother Fleck's collegial vision of jazz brotherhood to no end. Mingus also sided with the former' air, if only in the sense that none should be trusted save for Mingus. Billie or Fats weren't acting so keen towards those who frequently tried to warble the talks by pointing at other suspects. And then Fats himself with Coltrane still couldn't see eye to eye, the first finding Trane's number too dried up and mellow, whilst Trane suspected the former of being too quick in singing a rainy noir ballad for the banished one.

Lastly, after even these players felt the need to phase out for a bit, Vince remained almost alone on stage, having previously bided his time at the piano with some fascinating rhythms, only to then start snooping around others players' notes, twirling his moustache with one hand and spinning a pencil with his other, to see what they had written down. 'Oh my, this transposition won't do... will you look at those accidentals... sketchy improve cues there, Mr. P.... oh good grief, Coleman doesn't even have a sheet on his stand!'.

The Host, meanwhile, signaled Socky to follow him out for a bit, knowing rather well which players to attempt to follow more closely in the shadows of the moonlit auditorium (Socky couldn't afford to pay for powering up the whole abandoned building for this one eventful evening and in fact even had to bring floodlights for the stage). No sooner did they go down the stairs, that they heard strange noises, coming even lower from a corridor leading the men's restroom. Upon getting there, they caught a glimpse of the figures sneaking off behind other curtains, leading up another path. The restroom's door was left half-open and it made the two witnesses even more nervous, as the clinking noises did in fact not cease. They opened the door only to find Fats motionless next to the sink, tied to a ringing rube contraction of a bizzare, complicated design, with his shiny trumpet tightly fitting his head in the most uncomfortable, unnatural and death-dealing way.

Rushing back upstairs, they found the players and Fletcher back on stage, getting ready for the next take. Socky immediately cried out the dreadful news, which made everyone either speechless or livid or burdened. Except for Fletcher, of course. 'Well', he shortly turned back to the band and said, 'contrary to how the sayin' goes, it ain't over here even after the fat lady sang. On with it!'

===

10.VI.2015

Just spend a lazy afternoon in my hotel room in Hamburg listening to E.S.T.'s... well, Live in Hamburg. Adding location-themed music to my travels has always been a inspirational quirk of mine - in fact, the more literal or specific the reference and/or context, the better, which makes this album impossible to omit - though, on the other hand, I didn't plan things too thorough, as to bother reading or finding out where they actually played and see if I can maybe visit that location.

This record is now sort of a legacy album on its own, much like Leucocyte ended up counting as such afterwards, because it's one of only two live records of theirs [some DVD/TV concert performances notwithstanding] and, recorded back in 2009, it highlights perfectly the two sides of musical fervor that make up an E.S.T. concert: from the players's side, taking shape in a boundless, ecstatic performance; from the audience's POV, manifesting in sheer, crazed delight. The album is downright phenomenal and encapsulates exactly what I experienced myself, half a year earlier, when they had played in my hometown: magician-like seamless swaying between the well-defined playlist classics and improv-impressionistic drifting, freely conceived fragments.

Interestingly, the piece 'The Rube Thing' connects both of E.S.T.'s live outputs, 14 years apart; no other original piece off their earlier live set got imported in future performances or even added to the studio canon, as far as I can recall. The difference in skill and mindset is huge: here the core theme is merely some semblance of a pivot, on which the trio merely leans between several long periods of broad improvisation and wild musings. The first time it jangles happens six minutes into the whole track, and yet everything that introduced it is a marvellous blossom from introspective slow notes played by Esbjörn to a trademark build-up full of energy. The second half veers into solo exchanges, departing from the source material, in a way of going wild with it.
Fats Navarro has been killed. His real name was DrWilgy.

His role song was 'The Rube Thing' off Live in Hamburg and he was vanilla civilian.

Mmm, I see people are picking up the tempo a bit.



Don't forget those PMs by the end of the phase, tho.

Now that the Host dropped the bomb on what this shindy is all turning out to be, the musicians started behaving differently and treating things more seriously. The too-cool-for-school and too-bop-to-flop trumpeters were in fact the first to complain about the disharmony between players.

'Y'know, I ain't feeling like Trane here is on the same lane with us, know what I mean', Fats brought it up. 'Opening bars here feel like you should play them as if to speak out and make it clear who you really are, but it's like he's trying to mute this jazz altogether, man.'
'Man, that is low of you', Coltrane merely bothered to retort. 'You sure it ain't you who's sucking up the vibe here and noodling in search of a theme or somethin'?'

But Miles was even more vocal. 'Tell you what, I sure as hell know what I'm steamin' here and Fats over to my left ear sounds solid to me, too, but I ain't so sure of old Dixon, he seems lost in his thoughts and intent to displease this punk ass berserk conductor by not playing to his precise hand flick. Old ain't always gold, Bill.'
'Jazz ain't free till you let it flow, man. Like breathin' sounds coming right from the inner deep', mused Dixon in reply, not even glancing at Miles from his chair.
'No doubt bout it, but you can't be draggin it either', countered Miles. 'And don't play me off like that, as if I should have no say in this. It takes three to play these chords and it's gonna get personal if you'll tell me how free I should be spittin' them.'
'I hear ya, ol' bandleader', snapped Dixon, 'but all I'm sayin' is that I feel a new direction's been given to us and you ain't taking to it the way you should and now you moan bout it kind of out of the blue just cuz you ain't feeling it or somethin'.'

Before Miles' neck veins would reach the point of popping, Hiromi felt like saying she likes the old man. Guaraldi, though, opposite her, was less sympathetic 'If anything, I rather felt Dixon was playing too close to the score not to clam it, as if trying to please our top chief with iron fists for a baton here. Not sure I dig it.'

'Hey guys, just listen to this: ...' Ornette interfered, only to freeze his sentence in the air for another ten seconds, then go '...Chappaqua!!' and blast a D♭ in the high register.
'The hell, you're not even playing any note inside the required staff', ika complained, before realizing his mask fell off and panicking. 'D'oh.'
'Oh darling, you can't go slipping like that...You look more like a wolf to me.' said Billie Holiday.


'So you know what', Béla Fleck cut the narrative, 'I might have just noticed Bublé snickering there in the back, while we're trying our best here, and I'm not satisfied with it. I mean, come on, I'm trying to play banjo in a bloody big band here. I say we just ask him to leave and get it together.'
'Hey, what's that for?' lamented Bublé. 'I haven't even gotten to sing anything yet.'
'Oh, trust me, sugar', giggled Holiday, 'when we'll sing something, it's going to be all me. You don't interest me much, either.'
'Nothing against you, man', added Potter, 'but yeah, it'd be like listening to cheese being grilled.'
'I don't condone it either', grunted Mingus. 'Play it like the masters or don't bother at all. Play it like Mingus.'
'What do I have to dwwoooo
In these lonely howohhhurs
And moments of despuhaaair
To be loved
To be lowwuoooved', Bublé started crooning.
'Well, there's your answer, man', concluded Coltrane.

And so the group banished Bublé from the session and found therein a reason to feel slightly better about themselves. Especially when the lachyrmose Bublé tripped on the mic wires and broke his neck, tumbling down from the stage.

'Well, that was some spectacle', Fletcher simply brushed it off. 'You ladies ready to play for real now?' They resumed Whiplash from the top. 'Nope. Still needs some work.'

===

29.V.2009

Big hits are never really my thing, which can sort of apply to E.S.T.'s occasional output of singles or standalone pieces as well, merely because it's not that much of a noteworthy subject, compared to getting a sense of their album journey as a whole. There's no denying however that with a piece such as Dodge the Dodo, off their 1999 From Gagarin's Point of View, they've hit the right spot for their visibility and acknowledgment to go way up. Buzz, radio hits, endless encore value, but most importantly the first feeling that this band is sending a shockwave of its own. And that their music is suddenly blossoming into a more appealing and energetic language. I think even the title track that follows Dodo contributes to that - the band may have made a video single to it, if I remember correctly. These two pieces are in fact in a sort of connected stream and their contrast highlights the range the band has: Dodo's dazzling, dastardly hymnic ostinato, switching to the vaporous, gentle ballad waves of the latter. And for a trademark piece, Dodge the Dodo is still intelligently composed as to not veer into pure schlager. Even as the high point off the album that it might (in theory) be, it keeps its jouncing, slightly electric rhythm steady, it still follows the tropes of different moods of improvisation and it doesn't go overboard or over-excited.
Michael Bublé has been kicked out of the band. His real name was Scotty.

His role song was 'Dodge the Dodo' off From Gagarin's Point of View and he was the mafia godfather.

It is now Night 1. You have 24 hours to send me your PMs.

Quin wrote:Hi, am I playing?

Less than half a Day to go, jazzers.

Also, the socklist has been updated with links to everyone's posts - although the thread isn't exactly pages long, at this point...

16.09.2008

"Some days ago, the band's new and also final album, Leucocyte, arrived in the mail. The music was composed and recorded by the band in the first half of this year, although you could technically say it all boiled down to a few arduous session days, certainly not a challenge that this trio could not surmount. But it's important to think of it as having been made in the first half of the year, since back then E.S. was still alive. I hear that the material was sent off to "post-production" come May, whilst the worst had happened two months later.

The first listen was overwhelming. I moved the player next to my desk one evening, intent to sit and contemplate throughout the audition. But mere concentration quickly turned into losing sight of anything else and not hearing any other sound, except the music that was fencing me in. I could hardly snap out of the trance and regain my composure, one hour later. As dark as it sounds, death is ultimately the most chilling aspect in this recording's essence. Once you analyse the product itself, it's quite possible that the track titles or the meaning of the album could have been chosen "post-mortem"; I mean, three pieces happen to be called Premonition, Ad Mortem or Ad Infinitum. Besides, the cover has the album title desintegrating, cell-like, in successive horizontal blocks.

However, this changes nothing regarding the music that they played, that they recorded, that they ultimately now have as legacy, which proves to be the darkest, most chaotic and experimental outpour of jazz and sonic effects that they have ever produced. Surely this can web one's thoughts into the idea that Esbjörn had a feeling or felt a vibration of sorts in his destiny and hence this music is a surge, a rush of adrenaline, a mount into new creative areas that he, that they were able to conquer. My dad was more daring in suggesting that you can't possibly forge such a high-concept album, hinting thematically at blood cells and all, not to mention the weirdly surreal music in itself, without any implication behind it: an illness sadly well known by and influencing the artist's mind. Again, I don't believe we can tell for sure how much of the album's design happens to be fabricated. But the music still stands as testimony. Such ravishing, experimental and confounding music. Premonition: Earth, as the first strong experience on the album, is a pure energy blast, slowly spiking up to intense, taxing heights, climaxing with ominous, deafening heartbeat-like rhythms, before vaporizing into broken soundforms..."


===

Several days later, 'round midnight, thirteen great spirits gathered at the town's Auditorium Hall, whose entrance doors seemed to have been forced open, their appearance taking the Host by surprise, who had been long waiting there, summoned by someone without much explanation. Some of these spirits were assumed to be dead for quite some time, which was also a bit surprising. But never mind that, for what great spirits they were to behold! Miles Davis, wearing his yellow striped crazypants and glasses the size of a visor, bobbing his head in his swagger; Billie Holiday, as mysterious as ever, talking with her agent on the phone, her face and moving lips shadowed beneath her veiled hat; Charles Mingus, dumping his instrument on a front row chair to refill his pipe; Hiromi Uehara, hoping nimbly on to the stage, looking excited and anxious, although from her looks you might have rather said she looked like she'd been woken up by a tornado - or, wait, I guess that's her hairdo.

Socky, the Host's friend, appeared from the rear side of the concert hall and sat down next to him, pointing with his hands at the marvel. 'Well. What do you think? Isn't this stupendous? I mean, look at all these figures. So many legends!' The Host applauded for a bit and then resumed to read his diary notes.

'Hold on, where's Monk?’ asked Socky.
'He told me you called him out', said Béla Fleck, also sitting down to tune his instrument, 'but he couldn't show up, so he asked me to step in'.
'We don't need him, anyway', shouted Miles from the stage. "Though I must say, some of you folks look just as weird to me, as well. Where's Chick? Where's Joe? Where's Wayne? Where's Dave-o? We could use Jimmy to shake it a bit as well. Hell, this ain't my bitchin' brew.'
'I brought shakers, Señor', intervened Tito Puente. 'I have it all in my kit. Maracas, timbales, penderetas, cajónes...'
'Yeah man, I don't really groove with that funk much', replied Miles on a snarky tone. 'I think mambo lessons are up in Elgar Room, further down the corridor.'
'Charming as always, Miles', remarked Mingus between interrupted puffs.
'Who there!’ jumped Miles.
'Remember me? waved Mingus from his seat. 'It's me, Charles. Yeah, Mingus!'
'Ooh hey Ming!’ chuckled Miles. 'Didn't see you there. Sup. John by any chance here as well?'
'da Trane is here, no worries', answered Coltrane, showing up from behind the stage curtain, as he was inspecting everything around.
'Now that's more like it', said Miles. 'How bout we hit a fast bop? Fats, you too. Let's jam it.'
'Think you can keep up?’ interjected Navarro.
'Chick isn't here?’ exclaimed Hiromi. 'That makes me sad.'
'Look at all these instruments', said Coltrane, string along the stage.
'Buttons!!’ squealed Hiromi, playing with a microKORG.
'It's like they were set up for all of us', added Coltrane.
'Oh good, cause I left Rusty at home, to be honest', replied Miles.
'No need, I'm good', said Chris Potter, unpacking his tenor.
'Want to play Linus and Lucy at four hands, Vince?’ asked Hiromi, but Guaraldi was a bit too serious to take that request.
'Oh no, I forgot my flugelhorn!’ bellowed Bill Dixon.
'I wouldn't mind blowing someone's horn, if you know what I mean', whispered Ornette from... actually, you couldn't really tell where he was from the seats.
'Wow, that's not creepy at all, man', shuddered Miles.
'Oh heavens no', cried Billie Holiday. 'I'm in no shape to sing tonight, I mean, just look at the weather outside, I could very well have caught a cold on my way here.'
'Ooooh the weather outside is fuuhhrrighhtful', Buble started crooning.
'Oh good lord', moaned Billie back at him.
'My dear pubescent friend, are you lost", asked Dixon, looking just as disconcerted.
'Hello', answered Miles when his mobile rang, after which he suddenly looked more concerned, hearing the voice at the other end, and stuttering.
'Teo? Uhm...' He paused for a bit, then said 'New phone, who dis.'
'Why are we here, anyway?' asked Coltrane.

The Host was ready to say something about that, though merely to wonder himself about the same issue, when Socky stepped in, saying 'Good question' and trying to shake off a shade of his usual ;feb; grin, before addressing everyone in a more relaxed and former way. 'Welcome everyone, wow, what an ensemble, I'm thrilled to be in your presence and I'm sure our Host is just as excited to meet you all. But before I'll give him the opportunity to mingle with you, a few things to clarify. Indeed you were summoned here tonight to perform a bit, share some stories, and give us a taste of what jazz was back in the days or still is nowadays. And sure enough, the Host is the best person to hear you out and guide you in practice.'

'Uhm, hi', mumbled the Host from his seat. 'I'm not really a conductor, though. I can't even improvise a tune much. I'm as stiff as it can get behind a keyboard.'
'Cheer up, man, all you need is some simple do-re-mi and a touch of Beethoven with a big of extra swing in it', said Guaraldi.
'You just need to rip it man', proclaimed Ornette. 'Punch those keys till they bleed.'
'All of the technique doesn't matter... only if the feeling is right', added Coltrane wisely.
'The fuego inside you...’ said Tito, 'that's the most important thing. Jazz is joy.'
'Jazz is a beautiful way of breathing. To play it is to mean it', ruminated Dixon with a solemn look behind his shades.
'Jazz is Mingus', boasted Mingus whilst launching another smoke cloud in the air.

'Well, hmm', noted Socky afterwards, 'that is indeed a bit of a predicament. But worry not, fellow stars, for I have managed to summon a good backup, just in case. You'll be thrilled to-'

Just then, the hallway door burst open and a slim, shadowy figure stormed through it, headed straight up, hardly acknowledging the Host and Socky on his way there, whizzed with a feral, but noiseless pace and without saying anything to anyone and left his hat and coat on a hanger nearby. Tall, late fifties, black T-shirt, black slacks, black shoes. Only then, as he climbed up, did each of his steps suddenly start to echo like the deep thud of a bass drum, until he went all the way to the center of the stage, in front of the conductor's stand. He stopped and gazed staidly at every musician currently on stage, his straight, unyielding back turned at the audience of two and at every musician still seated behind.

'Everyone this is-', Socky started saying, until the person interrupted him with a swift clench of his hand.
'Well then', the person, namely Terence Fletcher, started speaking, 'look at all these big faces here. You ready to play some old time classics or what? If you can still play, that is...'
Everyone looked bemused.
'Oh, don't look at me like that', carried on Fletcher, screwing his eyes at the rest and his mouth arching ever so slightly into a grin. 'You may be brilliant, or think you are, but form doesn't last beyond time. Heck, it may not even last between two takes. You need to be on top of your game and you need to prove yourselves, even tonight. So bring it.' Then he finally turned around and snapped at the others, 'Do you need an invitation to get up on the stage, do I look like your escort and cue giver to you or what! There are only two sightseers at my show tonight and that's Chopin and Rushboy over there, the rest of you, move! You too, Daddy of the Cool, get in place', he said to Miles, who was prancing in the background during all this.
The musicians in the back reluctantly followed up on the stage. 'This is certainly exciting, isn't it?’ Socky asked the Host, taking a seat next to him again.
'Do we even have enough players for this?’ asked Fletcher, 'or the right ones, for that matter? I'm seeing so many reeds sticking their neck in here, my god, it feels like I walked in to a marching band rehearsal. Compared to what... wait, really, no bones? How are we supposed to play without any bones?'
Nobody really bothered to answer him that.
'Potter', Fletcher went on, 'are you sure you didn't mistake the room? Or even the game, perhaps? You look a bit non-fiction to me.'
'Hey man', replies Chris Potter, 'I can play, that's all I know.'
'Barely, sneered Fletcher back. 'Who else? Well, at least we have Michelin Mascot on the bass...’ a remark which certainly didn't look like Mingus was pleased with. 'Wha... uh, seriously, no guitar either?'
Fleck took that spot and waved his hand at Fletcher. 'Yeah?’ Fletcher asked.
'I can cover that', Fleck explained.
'With what?’ Fletcher asked again in disbelief.
'Well, the banjo, if I may, can have a much more lush and vibrant palette than-'
'I'm now going to pretend I didn't ask that question', Fletcher terminated that speech.
'All ready here at the keys', Hiromi signaled, with Guaraldi still sort of reluctant to go ahead with all this, nevertheless taking second chair near her.
'We'll see about that', Fletcher shrugged it off. 'Drums!'
'Ready!’ shouted Tito with a big smile on his face. Fletcher just sighed and mumbled 'You're no Buddy Rich, that's for sure...'
'Uhm, excuse me, are we playing something that includes me?’ inquired Billie Holiday, suddenly wanting to sing.
'Maybe later, sweetheart', answered Fletcher. 'See, Bubbly there knows better than to ask.'
'Augh', shouted Billie. 'Oppression! Men are scum!!’ she kept yelling, then stormed off in the background. Buble just took a step back behind the band, as well, I suppose.
Fletcher, meanwhile, was still shaking his head at the sight of this rather disjoined, imperfect, unbalanced ensemble. 'I don't get it man. This really should have been a Speed game or something', he declared. 'Whose wise idea was it to bring only 13 players at a big band rehearsal, anyway?'
All eyes dropped on the Host, who shrank on his chair and took refuge in his diary book.
'...then again, it's not my problem if others aren't professional', Fletcher continued. 'I'm still gonna make sure this rehearsal works. Alright, then, everyone. I think we can manage it decently with the brass, bass and drums, at least. So, let's say, 'Whiplash'.'

Everyone, except the laid off singers, sitting in the back, was on their spot, dead-still, eyes glued on Fletcher’s every move. Coltrane on soprano, Coleman on alto and Potter on tenor, the three trumpeters behind them, Tito on the kit, Hiromi claws sharpened towards the piano, Fleck on the silly banjo seat. Fletcher was ready with his hand in the air and then, with simple flicks, whispered 'Five, six, and...'

The music started playing and it didn't take much to realize it sounded like a hot mess. Hand waved, fist clenched, and Fletcher brought it all to a halt. 'Sounds rusty, let's try again. Five, six, and...'
Not much better the second time. Something definitely sounded off. Hand waved, fist clenched, and Fletcher even paused a bit before saying the words. 'Not quite my tempo.' Hand, flick...
Same stuff, quickly stopped by Fletcher. 'Not quite my anything, actually. Pitches are off, rhythm is out of sync, and I’m hearing notes that shouldn't be there. Get it together. Ok, one more time. Five, six, and...'
Nope. 'Who's doing this?!’ Fletcher asked, getting testier with every attempt. He looked menacingly at each and every one, then raised his hand again. 'Five, six, and...'
Wah-wah-wawa-splat. 'Are you out of your fucking minds?! Trane, man, are you out of tune? 2.5 stars, really! Sitar sitter, is that really the suave sound that you so praised? Singers back there, are you trying to sabotage this band by whistling over the melody? 'Cause I swear to God...' But they didn't really look at him, nor did anyone in the ensemble.

The Host caught sight of two or three musicians exchanging looks and smirks, subtle enough for nobody else or even Fletcher, poised in front of all of them, to notice, but instead of saying something, he finally found an interesting angle to make out of it and kept on witnessing how Fletcher would flick at them to play, then clench at them to freeze, over and over, saying 'Dragging', then 'Rushing', then 'Draggin' again, then 'False notes' and so on...Finally, one retry seemed like it was starting to gel together, as Fletcher didn't interfere anymore and let the music flow, even giving signs of nodding and moving along the stage in the rhythm of the music. But then, just as it seemed like he was going to turn the pages on his stand, he instead grabbed the binded sheets and their covers and started throwing them at the musicians.

Everyone froze, shell-shocked, total silence on stage, although Miles was about to let out a 'What in the fu...'
'You think this is a joke?!’ Fletcher started yelling. "One of you is clearly dragging, one of you is clearly rushing, one of you may even be out of tune. Com'on, last chance, which one of you is it? Better yet, shouldn't you all try to figure that out and pluck the bitter weed from amongst you?'
The musicians started throwing looks at each other. The more this rehearsal would harrowingly go on without any resolution, the more suspicious they'd become of the others. Fletcher then cut the tension with another shriek: 'WHO IS IT? Lynch the fucker.'

The Host stood up and announced, 'Welcome to jazz mafia, everyone.'

And so, the Host saw that his game was ready to be hosted and looked in his old journal notebooks for some inspiration. The first date he checked, however, was a day written in sad blue ink.

17.VI.2008

"Early wake up, breakfast and the news that Esbjörn Svensson had passed away a few days ago. It happened last weekend, actually, but I hadn't read about it until today. Didn't quite notice others posting about it on the forums either. Now, I'm very much a bizarre and irrational person, with bizarre and irrational viewpoints, when it comes to thinking about death and mourning, which others tend to kindly remind me when irritated by my noncomformist views and lack of emotional response. But this time, E.S.'s death almost unlocked that human reply and shudder that seemed to elude me. It bereaved me, like no other artist's death had done before. I'm part of a fanbase of rather old artists that, sooner or later, are bound to take their cue out the door with the exit sign. But E.S. didn't fit the same profile. Everything about his freakish, sudden, shocking scuba accident is purely tragic. What's worse is that the Trio's activity now seems extinguished, whereas their previous 11 albums gave the impression that they could easily generate another 11 albums of even greater substance.

It's a startling thought, given that only one year and a half ago I had seen them play a whooping, overly generous 2-hour concert in my own hometown, which was no short of a miraculous event. It was back when E.S. was slowly becoming one of my favourite jazz pianists, next to the mighty Corea and Jarrett, of the ones I had discovered so far. Sitting in the Opera House's uppermost circle of the amphitheater-like concert hall to witness them was the closest contact I had with the three of them. Besides the music's connection of course. Dazzling, imaginative fragments from their well-known repertoire, binded together with long, ecstatic or intelligently built improvisational intermissions. The whole concert was recorded to be broadcast by the national television and still circles around in full on the internet. Local fans of the band tend to brag to this day that the concert in our town was even better than their triumphant Live in Hamburg recording, that they released one year later, in 2007. Not sure I would go that far, but even so, it was sort of an inch or two close to actually being true. Oh, what memories..."


===

At a later point in time:

<mpsocky>: So what's up? How's it going?
<vap_tm>: So-so. Working on preparing my game.
<mpsocky>: So excited for that one. It looks like it's going to be awesome.
<vap_tm>: So much details to worry about.
<mpsocky>: So true.
<vap_tm>: So many memories to think about. Including hearing about Esbjörn's passing.
<mpsocky>: So saddening, what a legend!
<vap_tm>: So unexpected to read about it.
<mpsocky>: So out of the blue.
<vap_tm>: So completely shocked by it.
<mpsocky>: So disheartening to lose him as an artist.
<vap_tm> So unreal that their music should suddenly stop here.
<mpsocky>: Such a loss in jazz history.
<vap_tm>: Such a way for it to all end.
<mpsocky>: Still, such a great ensemble, what a legacy!
<vap_tm>: So much to cherish.
<mpsocky>: So many great albums.
<vap_tm>: So much creativity in their evolution.
<mpsocky>: So much intensity.
<vap_tm>: So many emotions.
<mpsocky>: So much joy and passion.
<vap_tm>: So overwhelming.
<mpsocky>: So inspirational.
<vap_tm>: So out of words right now.
<mpsocky>: So understandable.
<vap_tm>: No, I mean, I'm out of things to say.
<mpsocky>: Oh.
...
...
<mpsocky>: Say, how about we gather some friends over at the Syndicate, to spend some quality time talk about E.S.T. and jazz?
<vap_tm>: That'd be nice.
<mpsocky>: Something to cheer you up.
<vap_tm>: Mm-hmm.

Socklist

Alive (6)

John Coltrane - [ Posts ] - WINNER
Miles Davis - [ Posts ] - WINNER
Béla Fleck - [ Posts ] - WINNER
Charles Mingus - [ Posts ] - WINNER
Chris Potter - [ Posts ] - WINNER
Hiromi Uehara - [ Posts ] - WINNER

Dead (7)

Michael Bublé - [ Posts ] - LYNCHED Day 1: 'Dodge the Dodo', Mafia godfather
Fats Navarro - [ Posts ] - KILLED Night 1: 'The Rube Thing', Vanilla civilian - WINNER
Tito Puente - [ Posts ] - LYNCHED Day 2: 'The Wraith', Vanilla mafia
Billie Holiday - [ Posts ] - KILLED Night 2: 'Elevation of Love', Vanilla civilian - WINNER
Ornette Coleman - [ Posts ] - LYNCHED Day 3: 'Jazz', Civilian cop - WINNER
Vince Guaraldi - [ Posts ] - KILLED Night 3: 'The Left Lane', Vanilla civilian - WINNER
Bill Dixon - [ Posts ] - LYNCHED Day 4: 'Letter from the Leviathan', Vanilla mafia

Revealed roles and identities

Fats Navarro / DrWilgy > "The Rube Thing" from Live in Hamburg. Vanilla civilian.
Billie Holiday / Silverwolf > "Elevation of Love" from Seven Days of Falling. Vanilla civilian.
Ornette Coleman / Vompatti > "Jazz" from Leucocyte. Civilian cop. Every Night, can check a player to determine his role and alignment. Receives one free ID on another civilian at the end of D0.
Vince Guaraldi / G-Man > "The Left Lane" from 301. Vanilla civilian.

Michael Bublé / Scotty > "Dodge the Dodo" from From Gagarin's Point of View. Mafia godfather. Any read on him will have him show up as civilian.
Tito Puente / Sorsha > "The Wraith" from Good Morning Susie Soho. Vanilla mafia.
Bill Dixon / agleaminranks > "Letter from the Leviathan" from Viaticum. Vanilla mafia.

Gameplay events

(Day 0) Prelude: Tuesday Sadland: The jazz spirits are gathering.
(Day 1) Take 1: Premonition
(Night 1) Rest 1: Feeling Dodo: Michael Bublé / Scotty has been kicked out of the band. His role song was 'Dodge the Dodo' off From Gagarin's Point of View and he was the mafia godfather.
(Day 2) Take 2: Boperation: Fats Navarro / DrWilgy has been killed. His role song was 'The Rube Thing' off Live in Hamburg and he was vanilla civilian.
(Night 2) Rest 2: Not Quite My Tito: Tito Puente / Sorsha has been kicked out of the band. Her role song was 'The Wraith' off Good Morning Susie Soho and she was vanilla mafia.
(Day 3) Take 3: Lady Swings the Blues: Billie Holiday / Silverwolf has been killed. Her role song was 'Elevation of Love' off Seven Days of Falling and she was vanilla civilian.
(Night 3) Rest 3: To Whom Who Keeps a Record: Ornette Coleman / Vompatti has been kicked out of the band. His role song was 'Jazz' off Leucocyte and he was the civilian cop.
(Day 4) Take 4: Good Ol' Vince Guaraldi: Vince Guaraldi / G-Man has been killed. His role song was 'The Left Lane' off 301 and he was vanilla civilian.
Rest 4: Vade Mecum, What a Wonderful World of Tomorrow: Bill Dixon / agleaminranks has been kicked out of the band. His role song was 'Letter from the Leviathan' off Viaticum and he was vanilla mafia.
(Endgame) Postludium: The Theme: Esbjörn Svensson Trio Mafia has concluded! The civilian jazz players have won!

Gameplay

P1) Day phases will last 48 hours. Night phases will last 24 hours. Day 0 will last 24 hours. Mafia will only be able to interact in BTSC during the Night, but the thread discussion will otherwise not be closed during that phase.
m2) At the end of a Day phase, the player with the most votes will be lynched. Votes must be cast in the poll to count. Announcing your vote in the thread isn't compulsory, but the Grand Spreadsheetmaster wouldn't mind you doing so every step of the way. Not one bit. Lynch ties will be decided by a jazz improv showdown. Alternatively or realistically, a coin toss.
M2) Votes in the poll are changeable at all times. Selfvotes are permitted. Player can opt for a "No Lynch" vote in any phase, but only if that option gets the majority of votes, will it count as the lynch result.
m3) At the end of a Night phase, a player will be targeted by the Mafia team to be nightkilled.
P4) All players belonging to the winning faction will win, dead or alive. A player of the marmot species, if present in the game, will win only if the Host allows it.
P5) All flips are revealed in detail at the end of a phase.
m6) This game is a closed setup, so any further gameplay-based details will not be posted or explained until they happen to be revealed throughout the game.
M6) You will, however, have noticed that this game is also a sockpuppet game. Socks are completely irrelevant to the closed setup. There is no reason to consider it otherwise unless you suffer from apophenia.
m7) Roleclaiming and infodumping are permitted. Disclosing any PM material received via the Host is prohibited. Sockrevealing is prohibited. Sockguessing is up to you, if you think it serves the game. If you accidentally post under your real identity, well that's that, the Host will not be cleaning up and you won't get penalized either. Just do your best not to sockgaffe. Protip: log in and play this game on a different browser than the one you normally use for The Syndicate. Roleplay is optional. Off-topic jazz discussions are heavily encouraged.
m7) After the game concludes, players may submit votes via PMs for the MVP of the game. The player receiving the most votes will be crowned MVP and become eligible for The Syndicate's All-Star Heist Game.

Rules
P1) Play in a civil and respectful manner towards your fellow players, the Host and the Mod. Remember that playing a game of deception and engaging in heated arguments is no reason to take it personal or step outside the spirit of the game's boundaries. PM foremost your Mod of Duty, aka MovingPictures07 or, for relevant issues, The Host as well with any vents or rants.
d2) A host-designed location will be granted for BTSC partners [due to the sockpuppet feature, no on-site spectator thread will be created]. BTSC is otherwise strictly prohibited between players who don't have it or during phases in which it is not allowed, for players who do.
M3) You should normally find it impossible to edit or delete your posts in the game thread, especially since this is a sockpuppet game. If by any chance you possess magic powers, do not use them for this purpose.
a4) Players are generally required to post in white during regular gameplay, apart for nuancing specific posts with appropriate colors, if they desire to.
d5) Dead players should post using the {Dead} button and off-topic, death reaction posts notwithstanding.
a5) Non-players should post using the {np} button and off-topic at all times.
d6) Any off-topic post should be written using the {OT} button.
a6) This is the color in which The Host will be writing. Don't use it!
P8) Post jazz hands in the first post of your game if you have read the rules up to this point.

Participation Score and Game Elimination

Participation Score and Game Elimination standards have been annulled, because I'm in a good mood.
Just give your best to play, ok?

Please?

Please?!