JAM Magazine: October/November 1997 Issue: Coda

by Mike Metheny

But, Maybe He Meant It in a Positive Way...
During the tenure of this editor, it has been, and will continue to be the policy of the Jazz Ambassador Magazine to be as supportive as possible when it comes to work reviewed. Music, after all, is a tough enough profession without harmful press. (Let word of mouth -- and thundering silences, for that matter -- do in the scufflers, I've always said. Nasty reviews are often more about the self-gratification of pious wankers than useful information to the reader.)

But then, every once in a while, a memorable pan from another publication comes to our attention; a scathing treatise so alive with venom, gleeful contempt, and (unintentional?) humor it just has to be shared.

The following "exposé" ran in the September 9-15, 1993 edition of Columbus, Ohio's The Other Paper, the subject: everyone's favorite whipping boy, Kenny G. We thank The Other Paper for granting permission to reprint, and we salute writer John Petric for setting a standard of invective rarely seen around these parts (Scott Cantrell notwithstanding).

Sometimes it's useful, in a sadistic and twisted kind of way, to marvel at the flames that can shoot from a rabid music critic's poison pen. And other times it's important to study the indictments of a Professional Observer whose words reveal the self-loathing of a failed musician (see "Scott Cantrell" above). But there's also the possibility that a "weenie" or two out there just plain deserves to get nailed now and then. We'll let you decide which is the case here. -- MM

Getting Down With The Milquetoast Maestro
by John Petric
The Other Paper, Columbus, Ohio
(c) 1993

A whole lotta people paid a whole lotta money to witness a whole lotta meaningless breathing exercises done through a musical snorkel Saturday night at the Columbus Convention Center.
Kenny G -- the mayor of mayonnaise music, the milquetoast maestro, the woodwind weasel -- played his saxophone to roughly 5,000 people at $25 per head. That adds up to a $150,000 gross and boy, gross it was.

G is the latest and most successful instrumentalist with a slight jazz pedigree to hit the big time. However, in G's case, it's with an authenticity so questionable he may as well document it with a fancy diploma from some phony offshore jazz school in the middle of the Caribbean. Even Zamfir comes with better jazz credentials.

Ornamental romantic themes ruled the night's jazz lite hell. Goopy, chimey electric piano usually introduced his tunes, G's wimpy soprano sax then laid down a melody fit for a lovesick poodle on Prozac. If Holiday Inn motel art could come to musical life, it would sound like G's "Forever In Love" or "Sister Rose" or "Sentimental," all horrible crap from Breathless, his hezillion-selling album on Arista.

The Thin White Duke of Puke's solos were the color of air. His improvisations improved none at all as the long night dragged on. His chops consisted almost entirely of pyrotechnic finger exercises and obnoxious minutes-long sustains that had the crowd whooping and hollering.

Sadly, though, the long-winded G has all the fiery jazz imagination of, say, Richard Clayderman, the French dude. (He's French, for crissakes, need I say more?)

As the G-Weasel committed atrocity after atrocity in the name of jazz, pulling tunes off his seven-album catalog, the question remained. Why is this weenie doing so well?

Opener Peabo Bryson joined G for a song in the middle of the headliner's set. It was the best part of G's show.

(Coda coda -- Was Petric on the money? Or out to lunch? Is it hypocritical to knock certain critics, as we've done in this issue, but legitimize another by reprinting this review? And, as Petrick asks, why has Mr. G "done so well?" Any thoughts? Drop us a line.)

RETURN TO OCTOBER/NOVEMBER 1997 MAIN INDEX

------------------------------------------------------------------------
© Kansas City Jazz Ambassadors 1996-2001. All rights reserved.






	Search our site:		by Mike Metheny But, Maybe He Meant It in a Positive Way... During the tenure of this editor, it has been, and will continue to be the policy of the Jazz Ambassador Magazine to be as supportive as possible when it comes to work reviewed. Music, after all, is a tough enough profession without harmful press. (Let word of mouth -- and thundering silences, for that matter -- do in the scufflers, I've always said. Nasty reviews are often more about the self-gratification of pious wankers than useful information to the reader.) But then, every once in a while, a memorable pan from another publication comes to our attention; a scathing treatise so alive with venom, gleeful contempt, and (unintentional?) humor it just has to be shared. The following "exposé" ran in the September 9-15, 1993 edition of Columbus, Ohio's The Other Paper, the subject: everyone's favorite whipping boy, Kenny G. We thank The Other Paper for granting permission to reprint, and we salute writer John Petric for setting a standard of invective rarely seen around these parts (Scott Cantrell notwithstanding). Sometimes it's useful, in a sadistic and twisted kind of way, to marvel at the flames that can shoot from a rabid music critic's poison pen. And other times it's important to study the indictments of a Professional Observer whose words reveal the self-loathing of a failed musician (see "Scott Cantrell" above). But there's also the possibility that a "weenie" or two out there just plain deserves to get nailed now and then. We'll let you decide which is the case here. -- MM Getting Down With The Milquetoast Maestro by John Petric The Other Paper, Columbus, Ohio (c) 1993 A whole lotta people paid a whole lotta money to witness a whole lotta meaningless breathing exercises done through a musical snorkel Saturday night at the Columbus Convention Center. Kenny G -- the mayor of mayonnaise music, the milquetoast maestro, the woodwind weasel -- played his saxophone to roughly 5,000 people at $25 per head. That adds up to a $150,000 gross and boy, gross it was. G is the latest and most successful instrumentalist with a slight jazz pedigree to hit the big time. However, in G's case, it's with an authenticity so questionable he may as well document it with a fancy diploma from some phony offshore jazz school in the middle of the Caribbean. Even Zamfir comes with better jazz credentials. Ornamental romantic themes ruled the night's jazz lite hell. Goopy, chimey electric piano usually introduced his tunes, G's wimpy soprano sax then laid down a melody fit for a lovesick poodle on Prozac. If Holiday Inn motel art could come to musical life, it would sound like G's "Forever In Love" or "Sister Rose" or "Sentimental," all horrible crap from Breathless, his hezillion-selling album on Arista. The Thin White Duke of Puke's solos were the color of air. His improvisations improved none at all as the long night dragged on. His chops consisted almost entirely of pyrotechnic finger exercises and obnoxious minutes-long sustains that had the crowd whooping and hollering. Sadly, though, the long-winded G has all the fiery jazz imagination of, say, Richard Clayderman, the French dude. (He's French, for crissakes, need I say more?) As the G-Weasel committed atrocity after atrocity in the name of jazz, pulling tunes off his seven-album catalog, the question remained. Why is this weenie doing so well? Opener Peabo Bryson joined G for a song in the middle of the headliner's set. It was the best part of G's show. (Coda coda -- Was Petric on the money? Or out to lunch? Is it hypocritical to knock certain critics, as we've done in this issue, but legitimize another by reprinting this review? And, as Petrick asks, why has Mr. G "done so well?" Any thoughts? Drop us a line.) RETURN TO OCTOBER/NOVEMBER 1997 MAIN INDEX ------------------------------------------------------------------------ © Kansas City Jazz Ambassadors 1996-2001. All rights reserved.