Live Review: Winter Jazzfest 2025 Brooklyn Marathon
Yes, you are music too!
Sun Ra Arketra. Photo: Lev Radin for Winter Jazzfest
What makes jazz jazz? The earliest account of the word’s use is found in a 1912 Los Angeles Times article. Ben Henderson, the pitcher for the Portland Beavers, invented the jazz ball pitch, which he explained “wobbles and you simply can’t do anything with it.” An archived post on the now-defunct Oxford Dictionaries blog guesses he might have borrowed it from jasm, a slang term for zest, drive, or energy, that dates back to 1860. Unpredictability (in the form of improvisation) and gusto are two of jazz’s most basic components, but what really makes jazz jazz is communication. Whether the musician is connecting with a bandmate, speaking directly or indirectly to the crowd, or even talking to themself — this dialogue is what makes jazz special.
I started my Winter Jazzfest with the opposite mindset. I didn’t feel unpredictable, peppy, and open — I felt aimless, apathetic, and alone. The bitter breeze numbed my fingertips as I smoked my fifth cigarette of the hour. I was waiting to get into the Brooklyn Bowl for my first stop at the Brooklyn Marathon. I hadn’t eaten all day, which probably contributed to my irritation, but even filling up on freshly fried Blue Ribbon chicken couldn’t warm up my frosty attitude. I’m sure Couch, the venue’s opening act from Boston, wasn’t actually as corny as I made them out to be. At the time; however, their New Girlesque renditions of Justin Bieber’s “Sorry” and “Conjunction Junction” from Schoolhouse Rock were pushing me over the edge. I was one cover song away from having a mental breakdown.
Dominique Fils-Aimé. Photo: Arielle Lana LeJarde
“Imagine you’re in a garden.” I was standing in the front row of Baby’s All Right, but Dominique Fils-Aimé’s voice could take me anywhere. The second she got on stage, my whole demeanor shifted. Her sheer, sequined dress sparkled in the blue and purple lights as she urged us to be present. “If you get too distracted, I invite you to close your eyes.”
The JUNO Award-winning singer broke up her boisterous belts with breathy whispers that forced you to hang onto her every word. It was my first time hearing these songs, but each lyric felt like the exact message I needed to hear. Her words were direct (“Leave, leave, sad thoughts,” she sang at one point) and she expressed her experiences with mental health, identity, freedom, and love with endearing promise. Even when Fils-Aimé acknowledged the world was coming apart at the seams, she dripped with optimism only a Canadian could have.“We’re limited in every resource except for one: Love,” she said. “So spread it as much as you can.”
Arooj Aftab. Photo: Arielle Lana LeJarde
At Music Hall of Williamsburg, Brooklyn-based Arooj Aftab provided a different kind of comfort. Seeing a fellow Asian woman command the stage so self-assuredly morphed me back into an admiring younger sister. She made every elaborate riff look unchallenging as she alternated between singing in Urdu and English. She directed each second using subtle signals, carrying out her vision with an elegant nonchalance. Demystifying her air of effortless cool were songs about alcohol-induced infatuation, awkward pauses with the band, and self-deprecating musings. “If you’re in the front row and want to take a picture, just don’t get my chins,” she half-joked before turning to the showrunners. “I don’t know. Let them on stage, I guess.” Where Dominique Fils-Aimé inspired hope in dire moments, Aftab wasn’t afraid to lean into the darkness. She came across as raw and impenetrable. With her, it felt okay to accept the messiness of life.
Arooj Aftab’s wispy timbre guided the group — composed of a flutist (Domenica Fossati), harpist (Maeve Gilchrist), bassist (Zwelakhe-Duma Bell le Pere), drummer (Engin Kaan Günaydın), and guitarist (uncredited) — who created the backdrop for the room’s ethereal atmosphere. Like alchemists, they transformed familiar instruments into unearthed sound devices that were built in a dreamscape. It was a disappointing realization that this would be the only time I saw women instrumentalists, but at the same time, I was proud to know the most diverse band was assembled by a South Asian woman.
Far removed from my funk from the beginning of the night, I was finally ready to return to Brooklyn Bowl for Sun Ra Arkestra. After being blown away by the previous performances of the night, I was worried my high expectations might be gearing me up to be let down. The eponymous jazz composer, who died a year before I was born, changed the meaning of music for me. This performance was a direct line to his legacy, and a chance to understand his message in a way that no recording could capture.
After nearly an hour of waiting for the switchover, finally, a sea of sequins poured onto the platform. One by one, the 16-piece ensemble filled the rows, sitting behind their perfectly placed instruments. A gold-drenched Marshall Allen, the Arkestra’s 101-year-old bandleader since 1995, picks up his signature Steiner EVI and initiates the production. The electronic gizmo’s whistling warbles prompt to Knoel Scott follow, and his bold baritone saxophone implores the rest of the band to begin. Contrasting Allen’s costume, Scott is dressed head-to-toe in silver. He acted as somewhat of a defacto conductor — it was a hefty job with big shoes to fill, but he guided the group with earnest resolve.
Every detail in the Sun Ra Arkestra experience was intentional. From the second the band took the stage sporting their elaborate color-coordinated costumes, we’re sucked into their sparkling solar system. Each member’s music machine greeted the audience, fusing into one cosmic cacophony. These weren’t just musicians, but aural architects using sound to design a new world. For 90 dizzying minutes, we were guests on Sun Ra’s utopian planet. He might not have been on stage, but you could feel him all around us.
What makes jazz jazz? The question was answered by a sentiment that echoed throughout the night: Jazz is something we make together.
“Why doesn't the Earth fall? How can you walk upon it? It's the music. It's the music of the Earth and the sun and the stars. It's the music of yourself, vibrating. Yes, you are music too! You're all instruments. Everyone is supposed to be playing their part in this vast Arkestra of the Cosmos.”
— Sun Ra, Space Is The Place (1974)
