Ben Goldberg’s Invisible Guy
Big Bar
East Village, NYC
Nov. 26, 2023
On a rainy Sunday night after a holiday weekend, shoulders up and head tucked against the drizzle, I made my way from the train station, through all the splash and patter, to the hippest and coziest joint in the East Village: Big Bar.
Guided by a well-trod path — this is far from my first time here — to the Bar’s red glow, spilling its beacon onto the reflective surface of drenched city, I was happy to find the band, Invisible Guy, already set to warming up.
Big Bar’s usual soundtrack of deep-cut hip-hop, unheard punk, psychedelic curio, and non-standard jazz was, for a few moments, replaced by the chatter of clarinetist Ben Goldberg and keyboardist Michael Coleman running a scales together in a near raga-like fashion. The ritual was strange, but I had a suspicion that this series of pitches being so meticulously synced would resurface later, subtly re-organized as the basis of the music to come.
There wasn’t much that would have gotten me out of my apartment on a miserable November evening. But when Ben Goldberg plays, Ben Goldberg must be heard. So, a shot of Fernet Branca and Red Stripe were ordered, and I settled in.
The band kicked off with a murmur, Hamir Atwal bringing up the subject of swing with brushes on the snare and wry patterns on the ride — a brief suggestion which Goldberg relished with sparse noodlings, developing a cellular motive, a clutch of notes shifted in rhythm and register, more rhythm than tune.
Then Coleman’s keys joined, but in patient contrast to the percussion and horn’s approach — long tones hovering over the clatter.
It was this patience, deceptive in its simplicity, that made this ensemble magical. Invisible Guy is as apt a moniker as could have been chosen. There was an empty space in the center of the sound, an aural shape that was not only recognizable to the audience, but deeply known by each musician, a subject so familiar they need not ever addressed it directly.
Over the course of the first piece, they moved from suggestions of swing to choralistic hymnody and, in a final tuneful episode, to something resembling Tin Pan Alley, straight-ahead jazz. But, they never once gave fully in to one idiom. Mercurial and protean, they somehow, together, found a place to rest and out of the silence Ben Goldberg speaks: “Thanks for listening. We’ll make up another one…”
Goldberg himself is of a kind, mercurial temperament. In my years spent around musicians and artists in general, I’ve noticed more and more that the real motherfuckers, the guys that live the shit body-and-soul, in the manner of a true faith and earnest practice, are by and large of similar personality. Often the greats are quiet, laconic in their speech, and listen to those around them with a bottomless wonder and generosity. It’s a quality that must come with having oneself so subsumed into an art form, with such a wide avenue for expressing the inexpressible one perhaps feels that one has said all there is.
“We appreciate having the opportunity to try weird shit in public for all you beautiful people.”
Then there was another piece, improvised from silence onward. And then another. The bar became crowded (Big Bar is a name chosen in tongue-and-cheek irony; the place is all but a closet) and Invisible Guy was front and center, crammed in a corner. More elegiac murk and, with Coleman heading up one of the tunes, ovations toward electronic precision and rubbery hip-hop bass. Keyboard and clarinet gave over to Atwal’s drum kit, and the field was razed for a drum solo bordering on second-line, fried hard with press-rolls and military taps — a staid jubilance, a groove whispered for the sake of its truth. The ethic of the music remained patient, heady with interplay and room always being made for a new idea to break through, a fresh direction through previously unexplored pathways.
After the final piece of their second set, Goldberg again spoke to the those of us gathered: “Big Bar is the central vortex of the musical universe — and you should know that.”
He was right. Big Bar is that place, and you should know that … but don’t tell anyone that you heard it here. It’s an open secret. We were all shoulder to shoulder, washed in red light, and vibing. Big Bar is the coolest of the cool, not an ounce of pretention but full to the ceiling with passion for art, music, and camaraderie. Everyone’s a friend on account of the basic fact of everyone’s presence.
A final word from Goldberg before the night carried on into early morning carousing: “That’s as beautiful as we could make it. Thank you all.” And we all thank Ben, Michael, and Hamir for reminding us how beautiful it could be made.
