David Haney

As I ambled towards the Royal Room on the evening of January 13, I was near-accosted on the street corner by what turned out to be one of the musicians: “You’re missing the show tonight!”

“But I’m going!” I insisted.

Into the club with Ornette and Ayler (dare I say?) muzak playing, the stage festooned with burning candles & pix of Indian saints upon an altar along with didgeridoo & ram’s horn amongst more typical jazz instruments, while flyers advertising Baha’i gatherings and a Women of Wisdom conference shared a table with CDs and jazz magazines promoting the show.

A growing assembly of oddly dressed characters began to circulate with their multi-colored robes a-swirling. The first few celebrants took the stage, including Dr. Primitive himself (David Haney to his mother) in top hat and bright red cape, lightly strumming inside the piano while a Francophile warbled and chanted in quite-beyond-jazz fashion. Dalton Davis drummed down some fine funk beats and Frank Clayton hid behind his bass yet similarly propelled the proceedings.

The chanteuse burned sage while an audience member eased in on a small frame drum. From a chair in the house, local gadabout Marc Smason joined them on shofar, then took the stage on murky muted trombone while a dancer crawled around the stage out before taking the floor in unseemly cavorting.

An artist, complete with beret, appeared and painted upon Haney’s robed back, even as Haney continued to massage the piano both inside and out.

The music remained spare and minimalist (despite the funky drums) for a good while until Haney came to the front and recited a kind of sci-fi version of Genesis before retreating into the mix.

From out of the seeming-circus-tent backstage, a kind of female mafioso ushered forth, lit a cigar, swore at us “Goddammit, shut the fuck up!” and fell over: “That was a Freudian slip, alright?” She tore up a sordid porn rag and threw pages into the audience and directed another saxman to blow. And he did erupt in a full-on sax freak-out, cutting short the spacey, sparse ambient twangs and twiddles.

Throughout the night, I felt Haney was proposing “It’s just not enough to simply perform competent bebop anymore: the audience demands theatre, ritual, performance, mystery!” And woo yea, did they ever pile that on!

Dr. Primitive, currently based in Portland, and also the newish owner of the illustrious Cadence music magazine, seems to have a fondness for this sort of “neo-vaudeville” and for roping in local talents to augment his traveling musical circus. Seattle has become a favorite stop for him, and it would be well worth your while to check him out.

Out came a blindfolded Pike-Place-Market-esque guitar busker, who scarcely played a note but emoted fiercely while struggling to locate his mike and his strings.

To further this Gesamtkunstwerk — this synthesis of all the arts — now a strange black-&-white movie played on the wall behind the stage. Close-up: cheap apartment. Exterior: sidewalk. Folks share eggs; others sit in trees.

The Artiste painted abstract swaths across a hanging sheet. The ’bone blared on. Haney stepped out front for some conduction, joined by the dancer, whipping the ensemble into a cathartic crescendo.

The chanting chanteuse and muse circulated among the audience, wafting swirls of sage and commanding each one of us: “May you be happy and prosperous.”

As I walked out of that Room most Royal that evening, I thought: “I was, indeed!”