At some point in 40s America, improvisation was beatified, and Charlie Parker became something of a patron saint to the new bohemians. In Jack Kerouac’s words, he was a Buddha-like figure proclaiming “…All Is Well” in brittle notes coming out of a plastic saxophone (e.g., Jazz at Massey Hall). It wasn’t simply Parker’s novel bop sound that mattered, but Parker himself as an emblem for free expression, a musician that somehow transcended the materials of his art through a heady mix of heroin, technique, and divinity. Parker’s art was unfixed, existing only from moment to moment, so in a sense Charlie Parker was the music. In the lofts of Manhattan and California, this seemingly “free” process of making art came to be seen as more essential, and in many ways even more meaningful, than the art produced. To “Action” painters such as Jackson Pollock, dripping paint on a canvas was reception from the subconscious; for composer John Cage, flipping coins was an imitation of the workings of Nature; “Beat Generation” writers Alan Ginsberg and Kerouac thought stream-of-consciousness poetry a kind of Zen satori. To the avant-garde of the 40s and 50s, improvisation was a way to go beyond the (lowercase) self.

In music, improvisation never went away, but it changed. Out of bop, Ornette Coleman, Cecil Taylor, and Albert Ayler developed “free jazz,” abandoning the usual chords and melodies for something more abstract and intuitive; Karheinz Stockhausen, Pierre Boulez, and Cornelius Cardew followed Cage in modern classical music, in some instances creating scores consisting only of drawings or poetry for the performers to interpret. Today there is no clear division between the styles; improvised music is simply free.

Last Sunday’s show at the Center for Arts in Eagle Rock showcased some of the West Coast’s more accomplished free players. Two trios performed, the first something of a beat revival complete with spoken word (Ginsberg was name-dropped). Trombonist Michael Vlatkovich and percussionist Rich West alternated their particular brand of freely improvised music with aphoristic and witty lines by poet Dorothea (Dottie) Grossman, the funniest perhaps referring to Catskills comedian Henny Youngman. The music was more enigmatic, connecting less with the poetry than one would expect. Vlatkovich played various mutes as percussion, short bluesy lines using only the slide of the instrument, and reassembled the trombone in different configurations during the set to get a wide variety of sounds. West, the percussionist had an array of toys, chimes, and exotic percussion that he played along with his standard drum kit.  Frequently trading off with Vlatkovich between Grossman’s readings, his playing seemed calculated to have more contrasting moments throughout.

The second trio, consisting of Ross Hammond on guitar, Vinny Golia on woodwinds, and Alex Cline on drums, was perhaps a more usual take on the improvisational music scene.  At moments their set was almost oracular, an effect surprisingly not uncommon among adept free players.  A few notes played by Hammond would be taken up by Golia and Cline almost instantaneously and developed, which would in turn influence Hammond’s playing.  There were genuinely beautiful moments too; Hammond would loop haloes of ambient guitar sound while Golia played with a floating lyricism on the soprano sax, both supported by more understated playing from Cline.  Styles would change fluidly, hermetic free jazz turning into rock into noise etc.  However, like all free improvisation, not every moment was inspired or even listenable.  Transitions in the style can be a kind of fascinating seeking, or a wall of noise depending on the players and the day.  On Sunday, Hammond, Golia, and Cline had both.