London in January is unpleasant. I should know, I’ve lived through it. Stepping out into the dense air to walk anywhere is a chore — the atmosphere seeps into your bones, and the cold lingers long after you’ve reached your destination.
Tony Irving and Massimo Magee get that. They’ve felt it, lived through it, too — cooped up and bursting for something to do during the winter doldrums. Irving’s sat, couchbound, a drumstick in each hand; Magee’s sat, couchbound, alto saxophone in his grip.
…Till the tension becomes too much, and sticks snap with a sound like twin gunshots; the sax collapses under massive pressure. Irving and Magee look at each other and know what must be done. They must book studio time.
But first — to the instrument store!
I have it on good authority1 that this is exactly how it happened in January 2017. With new gear in hand, the duo channeled their restless energy into a blistering six-track jazz record, aiming to blast away the fog by conjuring it and minimizing it. Thus The Fog (Astral Spirits) was laid to tape, an aural shot of adrenaline that shakes the very foundations of malaise and banishes it from consciousness. Irving and Magee utilize their kinetic energy as a remedy, whirling around their instruments like twisters, perpetual motion machines that clear any particulate matter from the vicinity.
The Fog is like a double shot of smelling salts, but constant and huffed deeply.
No more blinking, wheezing, and choking — not while “Blinking, wheezing & choking” is playing. No more sooty specters — not when “A sooty spectre” emanates from your speakers. No more sucking haggard and unblest air into your lungs — not when “With a haggard and unblest air” is in the room.
So yeah, I’m with Irving and Magee — I’m sick of January (and, heck, February and March) too. Gimme some sunshine. Please.
1. My imagination is the only authority I ever really appeal to.
More about: Massimo Magee, Tony Irving
