Joy Guidry: Amen

Along with the soprano saxophone, the bassoon in the right hands and mouths can invoke whatever spiritual visions one places faith in. Maybe it lies in the promise of divine warmth, conjured by Eastern or Indian reed instruments with similar qualities. As often noted, the word "oboe" sounds like something a bassoon might emit. With a softer tone than its imposing size suggests, the bassoon has also been lumped in with humorous clownish noises. Resembling a strange undersea plant, its capacity for sounding sombre and vivacious, vulnerable yet sacred, is often overlooked.

Joy Guidry, however, does not overlook these contrasts and summons many lyrical notes from her Heckel Bassoon, made in Germany circa 1924. Although an instrument traditionally associated with white and wealthy musicians, Guidry is doing for the bassoon what perhaps Theon Cross has for the tuba. Amen is Guidry's second solo album to date and expands greatly on the artist's debut outing, Radical Acceptance (Whited Sepulchre, 2022). That title was also a mission statement from Guidry, alluding to loving oneself amid the struggles of mental pain. "I know that my Black, Fat, Queer and Non Binary body is valid in every way," Guidry says defiantly.

Raised in Texas as a Christian, Guidry later studied performance at the Peabody Conservatoire in Maryland, finding solace in ambient music, something we understand from the outset on Amen. Over vibratory waves of sound on "Psalm 138:7," the bassoon emits a deeply cleansing aura. (This biblical psalm says, "Though I walk in the midst of trouble, you preserve my life.") Next on "It's Okay To Let Me Go" we absorb healing frequencies akin to Carlos Niño, ribbed with woozy organ lines from the Alice Coltrane tradition. It may sound like a dream sequence, but this is the vibe of life itself, in all its breathing, pulsing and rekindling.

"Pick And Choose" features an audio sample from Pastor E. Dewey Smith, a flamboyant preacher whose fiery words are rocked back and forth by uplifting organ swirls. "Members Don't Get Weary" then pays homage to American drummer Max Roach's 1968 album of the same name. (Roach went with Git instead of Get). The title track was Roach's passionate version of an old spiritual, but Guidry cranks up the ante even further. Stupendous turns from the vocal ensemble, including Jillian Grace and Ekep Nkwelle, are sung as if in the grip of possession. Stir in some excited convulsions from the brass and percussion and it makes for an intense ecstatic experience.

Another earlier church song, "Angels" is done acapella without handclaps or foot stomps, just the natural swing of anointed voices. Bass, trombone and piano usher in the band for a decadent Louisiana hustle, as the singers find continued catharsis. "Day By Day" is not a take on the Godspell song, but a piece where violin and bassoon make tender tracks over a gently warbling backdrop. Like a wistful woodwind aria, it leaves a beautiful if unresolved mystery.

The bassoon's foreboding lower register is laid bare on "I Will Always Miss You." A hushed and poignant elegy, it hits a level of emotion that lyrics could only crudely express. Clocking in at just half an hour or so, the album closes with "Revelations 7:16-17." ("The shepherd will lead them to springs of living water. And God will wipe away every tear from their eyes.") Peace floods through this instrumental as Guidry shifts whatever burden has been carried on their journey. Voices echo like song fragments of memory, or hovering spirit messengers.

The scholar Bernice Johnson Reagon once said that music was like "running sound through the body." Amen puts us in touch with our bodies and it connectedly moves the soul. Guidry travels through several genres here, yet cradles them within one vision, led by the bassoon's peculiar pathos. On its mission from gospel through classical to jazz, Amen should light a sacred spark in the darkest heart.

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