King Midas

Rolling Stone critic David Fricke says, “One of the great things that [The Bad Plus does] is polarize the jazz community. There’s an insular, almost rabbinical quality to the jazz community. Anything that starts arguments is a good thing, because it brings in new influences. The fact that The Bad Plus covers Black Sabbath without embarrassment is both traditional and a total break with tradition. They’re increasing the jazz tradition, they’re making it bigger, they’re making it a broader church. They’re also one of the most exciting live bands going right now, in any genre. Playing a Black Sabbath song—that’s funny. But it can also be intensely powerful because of the nature of the song and the sound of the original version.”

Happy Apple’s Erik Fratzke says King “visualizes music as a whole, not just from a drummer’s perspective.” Mike Lewis calls King “a very emotional player. He’s very, very interested in push and pull and give and take, as opposed to just a support role that often drummers find themselves in.”

King has a “total fearlessness surrounding his talent, a total and respectful disregard for what’s come before him and a knowledge that he possesses this supreme talent,” says Chris Morrissey. “He takes a lot of flak from some more traditional players and from people who are used to hearing a certain thing, but he’s a true innovator. Even laymen can hear it. People, whether they like it or not, walk away from his shows and say, ‘That was unlike anything I’ve heard before.’ Whether you can explain musically what he’s doing or not, you walk away knowing that it’s this really pure, passionate art from this pure talent."

There are obvious success indicators in a musician’s career—record sales, media attention, awards—and then some markers appreciated only by musicians themselves. Dave King is so highly regarded he’s now sponsored by the cream of percussion manufacturers: Ellis drums, Zildjian cymbals, and Vic Firth drumsticks. Not that King has always been comfortable with the recognition. “I remember going to Zildjian the first time, four years ago,” he recalls. “They handed me some cymbals, and I’m thinking to myself, ‘Are they giving them to me, or do they want me to play them and bring them back?’ In the parking lot, I turned around and the guy’s smiling and waving. I thought he was going to say, ‘Come back here—you forgot to pay. It’s really just 40 percent off, Dave.’

“In a way, I’ll always be looking around to see if someone’s behind me who’s really the person they’re cheering for,” he says. “I’m superproud of my shit, but I’m not proud of it like it’s better than anyone else’s. I’m proud of it because it’s mine. It is better, though, than, like, Third Eye Blind. Anyone, other than AC/DC, with a rhythm guitar player. Jesus, my music trumps that shit.”

A month after the Happy Apple show at the Artists’ Quarter, The Bad Plus performs at Ted Mann Concert Hall, on the U of M campus. The audience, nearly 1,000 strong, is the usual mix of ages and presumed musical interests: Two rows behind a black twenty-something with a goatee and do-rag is a middle-aged white guy with glasses and a backward racing cap.

Pianist and frontman Ethan Iverson, wearing a fisherman’s hat and khaki suit, says the first song was “Everywhere You Turn,” adding, “The second was something from myself—‘Mint.’ That song is in perfect condition.” Though King doesn’t take the mike, he is, as ever, the center of attention. Iverson dedicates the next song, Reid Anderson’s “You and I Is a Comfort Zone,” to King and his drum kit, noting that the Ellis people are in the seats. 

Though the extremely appreciative and vocal crowd treats the entire show as though it’s a rock concert, there’s a singular moment that’s especially memorable—and indicative of the connection King and his partners have with their fans. King wrote three songs included on successive Bad Plus albums that play off the same quirky story line: “1972 Bronze Medalist,” “1979 Semi-Finalist,” and, on the band’s upcoming CD, “1980 World Champion.” As Iverson tells it this night, ski-jumping is the sport. A fellow named John Dickens, from Bloomington, Indiana, is in danger of being disqualified for excessive celebration. In “1980 World Champion,” Dickens has toned things down a bit.

When, near its conclusion, the song slows to a soft melody, the large crowd laughs. The wordless narrative has been conveyed by the music. And, as though by magic, the audience gets it.

Online editor Megan Wiley wrote about actor Jack Kaeding in the October issue.