Author: Tyran Grillo

Anouar Brahem: After The Last Sky (ECM 2838)

| Tyran Grillo

Anouar Brahem
After The Last Sky

Anouar Brahem oud
Anja Lechner violoncello
Django Bates piano
Dave Holland double bass
Recorded May 2024
Auditorio Stelio Molo RSI, Lugano
Engineer: Stefano Amerio
Cover: Emmanuel Barcilon
Produced by Manfred Eicher
Release date: March 28, 2025

Where should we go after the last frontiers?
Where should the birds fly after the last sky?
–Mahmoud Darwish

After The Last Sky marks the return of oud virtuoso and composer Anouar Brahem to ECM, eight years after Blue Maqams. That groundbreaking album also featured pianist Django Bates and bassist Dave Holland, both of whom are retained here, along with a new addition in cellist Anja Lechner. The result is a culmination of culminations, blending Brahem’s evolving integrations of jazz, European classical music, and, of course, the modal Arabic maqams at their core. Gaza was firmly on his mind leading up to and during the recording, and the titles reflect this awareness in a contemplative way. Despite the music’s delicacy (if not because of it), it offers prescient meditations on the horrors of violence that, sadly, seem to be the most inescapable leitmotif in the symphony of our species. That said, Brahem is not interested in proselytizing. “What may evoke sadness for one person may arouse nostalgia for another,” he says. “I invite listeners to project their own emotions, memories or imaginations, without trying to ‘direct’ them.” By the same token, notes Adam Shatz in his liner essay, “as with ‘Alabama,’ John Coltrane’s harrowing elegy for the four girls killed in the 1963 bombing of a Black Church by white supremacists, or ‘Quartet for the End of Time,’ composed by Olivier Messiaen in a German prisoner of war camp, your experience of Brahem’s album can only be enhanced by an awareness of the events that brought it into being.” Either way, After The Last Sky invites us into a conversation between ourselves and the political realities we would rather avoid.

And so, when wrapped in the tattered garment of “Remembering Hind” to start, we must remind ourselves that music, like life, is only what we can experience of it. If something never enters our sphere of awareness, it might as well not exist, which is precisely why we so often choose to ignore rather than engage. Here, we are given a space in which to reconcile those two attitudes, in full recognition that the sacred is forged from the ashes of the profane and that beauty is a fragile compromise for destruction. In some ways, this contradiction is inherent to Brahem’s instrument and its vulnerabilities, which he animates from within.

The more we encounter, the less we can deny our complicity in suffering. Whether in the post-colonial shades of “Edward Said’s Reverie” or the painful imagery of “Endless Wandering” and “Never Forget,” the weight of exile weighs on our shoulders. Meanwhile, the instruments take on distinct personas. Bates is the bringer of prayer, Holland is the bringer of faith, and Lechner is the bringer of community. Through it all, Brahem is the one who brings trust. Through his establishments, he reminds us that intangible actions have very physical consequences. By the thick threads he pulls through “In the Shade of Your Eyes,” we draw close for comfort in the afterglow of bombs.

Despite the sadness casting its pall over this journey, there are way stations where gravity has less of a hold on us and where, I daresay, hope becomes possible again. This is nowhere truer than in “The Eternal Olive Tree,” an improvisation between Brahem and Holland. As bittersweet as it is brief, it finds the oudist feeding on the bassist’s groove as if it were a ration to be savored, not knowing where sustenance might come from next. Other sparks of resignation are carefully breathed upon in “Dancing Under the Meteorites,” “The Sweet Oranges of Jaffa,” and “Awake.” In all of these, Lechner’s playing transports us to another level, inspiring Brahem to dramatic improvisational catharsis (yet always restrained enough to maintain his sanity). The album ends with “Vague.” Among his most timeless pieces, it is lovingly interpreted. Bates renders the underlying arpeggios with artful grace, while Holland and Lechner open the scene like a hymnal for all with ears to hear.

I close with another quote from Shatz, who writes: “Brahem’s album is not simply a chronicle of Gaza’s destruction; but its very existence, it offers an indictment of the ‘rules-based order’ that has allowed this barbarism to happen.” Thus, what we are left with is an indictment of indifference, as profound as it is melodic. What Brahem and his band have done here, then, is not to simply make an album of beautiful music (which it is) but rather to offer themselves as a living sacrifice to the altar of reckoning to which we all must bow if we are to make a difference that matters. When we are stripped of all we have, music is what remains.

Christian Reiner: Pier Paolo Pasolini – Land der Arbeit (ECM New Series 2768)

| Tyran Grillo

Christian Reiner
Pier Paolo Pasolini: Land der Arbeit

Christian Reiner reciter
Recorded 2021/22
Garnison7, Wien (2, 4, 5, 8)
Recording engineer: Martin Siewert
Innenhofstudios, Wien (1, 3, 6, 7)
Recording engineer: René Kornfeld
Mastering at MSM Studio, München
Engineer: Christoph Stickel
Cover drawing: Lilo Rinkens, “Arabische Pietà”
Produced by Wolf Wondratschek and Manfred Eicher
An ECM and Joint Galactical Company Production
Release date: November 18, 2022

He throws the bird in his hand into the fire,
takes the camera and films what everyone,
whether they like it or not, understands: the
animal that with its wings always ignites the
fire in which it burns.
–from “Pasolini” by Wolf Wondratschek

In 2020, the Neuberger Museum of Art at SUNY Purchase hosted an exhibition titled Pier Paolo Pasolini: Subversive Prophet. Although more widely known stateside as a filmmaker, the 20th-century (anti-)renaissance man who died in 1975 at the age of 53 was also a prolific poet, one who railed against the establishment writ large and all its material fetishes. And so, perhaps it would be more accurate to call him a prophet of subversion who treated written words much like characters in his cinema: namely, as ciphers for human sin.

The present album, a collaboration between poet Wolf Wondratschek, producer Manfred Eicher, and actor Christian Reiner, builds on previous ECM New Series releases featuring the works of Joseph Brodsky and Friedrich Hölderlin with equal acuity. In this instance, the trio zooms in on some of Pasolini’s most scathing sociopolitical insights in celebration of the 100th anniversary of his birth year. But as Wondratschek writes in his accompanying liner notes, Pasolini was someone who reveled in every band of the spectrum: “He wanted to celebrate the festival of life, the flower of passion, the flower of play, and finally, as an extreme action, the flower of death, his death.” He goes on to describe the challenges of deciding not only what to include in the span of a single compact disc but also how to bring it across verbally in a language not originally its own (all of Pasolini’s texts are read here in German translation). Thus, he wonders, “How do you go from admirer to brother of a poet?” A fair question that deserves as robust an answer as those put forth by the pasticheur of the hour.

The album’s title piece is the last stop in his collection, The Ashes of Gramsci, in which the peasants of Southern Italy toil not to live but as a means of sustaining their death. It begins innocently enough, describing the eponymous Land of Work (“Terra di Lavoro” in the original Italian) as a swath of roaming buffalo, the occasional farmhouse, and dotted crops. But as the camera zooms in on the details, a certain melancholy begins to take hold. Once humans enter the picture, we see the depravity of man come into focus:

If you look at their eyes, their hands,
a pitiful blush on their cheekbones,
where their soul, their enemy, is revealed.

Thus, the self is revealed to be one’s greatest adversary (a leitmotif in all his work, whether on page or screen). As the verses proceed, the peasants are likened to various domesticated animals, becoming increasingly less human the more they labor. The conditions are so poor that even the potential wonders of a newborn life are undermined by the observation that whatever might seem new to the young is at once tired to the old. Reiner reads with a varied cadence, at one moment flowing through the language, taking a pregnant pause the next, letting the after-effects of his speech linger in the air. The recording strips his voice of space so that it hangs from a thread of its own making.

Next is a letter written in 1963 to fellow poet Yevgeny Yevtushenko. In it, the self-styled “Catholic Marxist” attempts to bypass their intellectual aneurysms amid the broader global maelstrom to which they were both staunch intellectual observers. It’s also a tense negotiation between Pasolini’s adoration for Pope John XXIII (to whom he dedicated his film, The Gospel According to Matthew) and the looming threat of all-out nuclear war (indicated by his reference to Nikita Krushchev and the Cuban Missile Crisis).

While the title of “To the Prince” (1958) might imply a kindred slant, it’s more of an inward examination of youth’s fleeting nature, contrasted with the world’s immutability through the lens of an artist wrestling with apathy (“I am no happier, whether enjoying or suffering”). Appropriately, Reiner inflects the poem with relative brightness, holding it higher in the throat, not quite looking the listener in the eye. If it sounds lyrical at all, that may be one reason it was set to music by the band Alice in 2003.

“It’s so hard to say in a son’s words what I’m so little like in my heart.” So begins a brief yet densely packed slice of heartbreak: “Prayer to My Mother.” Written in 1962, it reveals that growing up amid unconditional love and understanding was what made him such a creature of anguish and honed his “love of bodies without souls” as a slave to time. This balance between the devotional and the deviant (his sexual proclivities on subtle yet obvious display here) is palpable.

A mysterious interlude then comes in the form of “Große Vögel, kleine Vögel” (The Hawks and the Sparrows), after Pasolini’s neorealist film of the same name from 1966. Instead of words, it draws a thread of bird song, seemingly replicated by sped-up whistling, à la Marcus Coates’s Dawn Chorus. This is followed by “When the classical world will be exhausted,” as quoted from Nico Naldini’s book, Pier Paolo Pasolini: A Life, which expresses Pasolini’s disillusionment with nature in a world destined to destroy it—a loss from which we will never recover.

All of this feels like small steps toward the giant leap of “Patmos,” a long poem from 1969 that was first published in the October/December issue of the magazine Nuovi Argomenti. The title references the island where John the Apostle was exiled and where God revealed to him what is known today as the Book of Revelation. After opening with this biblical foundation, it transitions into a list of victims of the Piazza Fontana bombing of December 12, 1969, and finally to a political analysis of then-Italian President Giuseppe Saragat. Reiner emotes with the most somber attention to detail, allowing the mood to settle on its own terms.

A poem by Wondratschek himself, “Am Quai von Siracusa” (1980), brings us to a close. With a stark insight that recalls the acuity of Paul Celan (whose works were set to music by Giya Kancheli on my favorite ECM New Series release, EXIL), it offers a bleak yet profound meditation on entropy:

The lion’s teeth are already rotten.
The cats give birth in empty palaces. And
a crack runs through the Madonna’s smile.

Thus, in these readings, we hear the fatigue of the encounter, of cycling one’s flesh through the ringer of Pasolini’s barbed words, and coming out the other side lacerated but all the more in tune with the fragility of life. Like my attempts to wade through Italian poetry by way of German on this spoken-word recording, we are forced to pick up whatever pieces we can find along the way, in the hopes of having a coherent narrative to show for it when all is said and done.

Julia Hülsmann Quartet: Under The Surface (ECM 2837)

| Tyran Grillo

Julia Hülsmann Quartet
Under The Surface

Julia Hülsmann piano
Uli Kempendorff tenor saxophone
Marc Muellbauer double bass
Heinrich Köbberling drums
with
Hildegunn Øiseth trumpet, goat horn
Recorded June 2024 at Rainbow Studio, Oslo
Engineer: Martin Abrahamsen
Cover photo: Thomas Wunsch
Produced by Thomas Herr
Release date: January 31, 2025

To the well-oiled machine that is the Julia Hülsmann Quartet is added a seamless recruit in the form of Norwegian trumpeter Hildegunn Øiseth, who joins pianist Hülsmann, saxophonist Uli Kempendorff, bassist Marc Muellbauer, and drummer Heinrich Köbberling for half of a fresh in-house setlist. After the trumpeter played with the quartet live in Berlin in 2023, the idea for an album was sparked, and so, Under The Surface was born.

But it’s the quartet under the banner of Hülsmann’s pen in “They Stumble, They Walk” that the album shows us just how much she and her bandmates can swing with their eyes closed. Her almost nonchalant colorations from the keyboard elicit atmospheric veracity from the start, setting the stage against a light-footed rhythm section for Kempendorff’s equally effortless freestyling. The result is a sound that is as hip as it is informed by the rudiments, paying homage to both melody and groove, and never letting go of either.

Most of the core band material is also composed by the pianist, including “Anti Fragile,” a geometrically inflected romp that recalls the work of Vijay Iyer, and “Trick,” an especially propulsive experience in which the composer turns up the heat without ever losing control. The same applies to Kempendorff, whose more fragile lines are no less fortified. His tenoring traces a robust mood throughout his “Milkweed Monarch,” yielding a solo highlight from Muellbauer before tapering off into an almost subliminal ending. The bassist’s own “Second Thoughts” is a master class in self-examination built on subtle drum work.

Muellbauer also contributes to the program portions with Øiseth, whose soloing in “Nevergreen” brings the wind to the proverbial earth and fire. Whether in “May Song” and “Bubbles” (both by Köbberling), one a tone poem and the other featuring a turn on goat horn for a dollop of farm-to-table lyricism, or in “The Earth Below,” a duet with Hülsmann, she understands how to abide by a melody while still being free and true to herself. Like a candle that must remain lit, she cups her hands around the flame to keep it lit. And in the concluding title track, she soars overhead newly invigorated, ready for the next adventure.

Of all the Hülsmann albums to grace the ECM catalog thus far, I’d say this one has the most variety. There is also a sense of camaraderie that only deepens with each new release, and in this instance, it practically leaps from the speakers and envelops you in a warm embrace.

Gary Burton/Kirill Gerstein: The Visitors (ECM 2853)

| Tyran Grillo

Gary Burton
Kirill Gerstein
The Visitors

Kirill Gerstein piano
Gary Burton vibraphone
Recorded May 2012 at Chenery Auditorium, Kalamazoo
Release date: June 12, 2025

Vibraphonist Gary Burton first met pianist Kirill Gerstein in Saint Petersburg, Russia, in the early 1990s and almost immediately recognized his talent. So began a logistical saga that culminated two years later in brokering passage for Gerstein and his mother to come to America, where the young prodigy enrolled as a 14-year-old at Berklee College of Music under Burton’s mentorship. Although Gerstein has since pursued a career in his first love of classical music, he has worked increasingly with improvisers such as Brad Mehldau and, in the present recording, none other than Burton himself. After winning the prestigious Gilmore Artist Award in 2010, Gerstein used his prize money to commission a series of pieces and immediately thought of Chick Corea. Gerstein proposed that Corea write a piece for him and Burton that combined both through-composed and partially improvised sections. The result was “The Visitors,” a 12-minute masterpiece that premiered at the 2012 Gilmore International Piano Festival. This recording was their second live performance of it and had only been made known to the musicians recently. Now, we have it released via ECM as a digital-only single.

Grounded in a Latin ostinato in 7/4 with a “looping groove” as Gerstein calls it, it gives organic flight to the musicians’ most uplifting impulses. As Burton makes his entrance, the duo aligns in staccato gestures before giving way to fluid diversions. The transition between what’s on and off the page is seamless, giving way to a beautiful modalism that transcends genre and time. Hearing Burton, now retired, in a relatively new recording is a joy in itself, and one can feel his history with Gerstein in their dialogue. The pianist’s solo turns are as playful as they are on point, never wavering from the dream of what the instrument can achieve when cut from the ties of expectation. His abilities are more than apparent and lend themselves to ecstatic interpretations. Burton’s occasional stretches of pedal mesh with Gerstein’s stippled approach perfectly, allowing the breath of life to animate their music making. The pianist’s rare acuity in both classical and jazz gives him the credibility to channel Corea, whose own history with Burton is also palpably evident. What a gift to behold in these times of darkness, a lighthouse for our wayward seafaring souls.

The Visitors is available for streaming and download here.

Henriksen/Seim/Jormin/Ounaskari: Arcanum (ECM 2795)

| Tyran Grillo

Arve Henriksen
Trygve Seim
Anders Jormin
Markku Ounaskari
Arcanum

Arve Henriksen trumpet, electronics
Trygve Seim soprano and tenor saxophones
Anders Jormin double bass
Markku Ounaskari drums, percussion
Recorded March 2023 at The Village Recording, Copenhagen
Engineer: Thomas Vang
Recording supervision: Guido Gorna
Mixed January 2025 by Manfred Eicher and Michael Hinreiner (engineer) at Bavaria Studios, Munich
Cover photo: Hubert Klotzek
Produced by Manfred Eicher
Release date: May 2, 2025

Arcanum brings together trumpeter Arve Henriksen, saxophonist Trygve Seim, bassist Anders Jormin, and drummer Markku Ounaskari. It is the first album for these longtime associates and ECM luminaries as a standalone quartet, following their previous collaborations with folk singer and kantele virtuoso Sinikka Langeland on Starflowers, The Land That Is Not, and The Magical Forest. In their element here, they look through a prism of shared influences toward something greater than their sum.

Seim’s opening tune, “Nokitpyrt,” is a nod to the greats of Scandinavian jazz (the title is Triptykon backwards, referencing Jan Garbarek’s 1972 watershed recording). It staggers its way forward, but never in doubt of where its feet will land. The horns converse soulfully, as they also do in “Trofast,” Seim’s other contribution to the set. Jormin offers two of his own in the form of “Koto,” a familiar gem that takes on new light through the glorious expanse of Seim’s tenor, and “Elegy,” written with these bandmates in mind on the first day of the war in Ukraine. That the musicians manage to elicit such a wealth of energy in such quietude is nothing short of astonishing. Jormin’s loving arrangement of the Ornette Coleman classic “What Reason Could I Give” and a take on the Kven/Finnish traditional “Armon Lapset” complete the predetermined material. The latter’s bipolar approach, by turns subdued and unbound, allows the band to free-wheel its way into uncharted waters.

And in fact, the lion’s share of the session consists entirely of spontaneous music making. First among these is “Blib A,” a brief yet evocative palate cleanser for the ears that comes second in the set list and once again proves the brilliance of Manfred Eicher in his placement and ordering of tracks into a narrative we can feel. Many of these pieces, such as the softly sunlit “Morning Meditation” and the memory-laden “Shadow Tail,” are almost as brief. Yet what truly impresses in these freely improvised wonders is their subtle and tasteful incorporation of electronics, courtesy of Henriksen. The musicians leverage this extra color to great effect as a bed for soulful sopranism and kindred trumpet (“Lost in Vanløse”), temperance for cymbal scraping (“Polvere Uno”), and tidal pull for distance tenoring (“Fata Morgana”). At any given moment, they are a source of deep comfort and hope.

Ironically, “Folkesong,” despite being ad-libbed, comes across as the most structured and traditional tune by comparison. Ounaskari’s tender brushes add a subtle undercarriage for this train ride, while Seim’s lilting sopranism gives way to Henriksen’s electronically enhanced calls. But even the most flowing tracks, like “Old Dreams” (another ECM reference, perhaps?) and “Pharao” (a highlight for its mind-melded horns), articulate with eye-through-the-needle precision. And in “La Fontaine,” with its late-night streets and evocations of urban solitude, we find ourselves at last coming home, different from when we first stepped out the door.

Arcanum is an experience of new directions born to longstanding impulses that says only what it needs to say—nothing more, nothing less.

Mathias Eick: Lullaby (ECM 2825)

| Tyran Grillo

Mathias Eick
Lullaby

Mathias Eick trumpet, voice, keyboard
Kristjan Randalu piano
Ole Morten Vågan double bass
Hans Hulbækmo drums
Recorded January 2024 at Rainbow Studio, Oslo
Engineer: Martin Abrahamsen
Cover: Fidel Sclavo
Executive producer: Manfred Eicher
Release date: February 14, 2025

On Lullaby, Mathias Eick returns to ECM with a fresh quartet exploring eight originals. In addition to broadening his wingspan, the album marks a culmination of his creative evolution (if not also his evolutionary creativity). The trumpeter intensifies his aesthetic even as he opens it to new possibilities of freedom and expression. I can only analogize his relationship to his compositions to that of a father and his children, watching them grow and come into their own, even while knowing a part of him will always reside in their DNA.

Among his bandmates this time around, ECM listeners will be familiar with pianist Kristjan Randalu and bassist Ole Morten Vågan, while drummer Hans Hulbækmo is a newcomer to the label. It is, in fact, the latter whose presence is most deeply felt from the album’s first moments. His delicate establishment of “September” lays an open-bordered groove before Morten Vågan and Randalu make their introductions, pouring out grace from evocative pitchers of thought. Eick’s trumpet joins waveringly yet surely, never doubting its message and trusting in a higher power to give him a voice within and without his primary instrument.

The title track is the most inward-looking of the set. It serves as an especially suitable vehicle for Randalu, who builds on a tragic theme with selfless contemplation, giving Eick more than enough room to cushion the traumas of global politics (having been written in response to the violence in Israel and Gaza). Next is “Partisan,” a mid-tempo wonder grounded in Morten Vågan’s bassing, which shapes every turn of phrase as if it were the first. There is something vividly sunlit about the band’s sound, as emphasized by Eick’s falsetto vocals, which add such warmth of character (as they also do on “Free”). “My Love” is dedicated to the trumpeter’s wife, swelling from a pianistic intro into an overwhelmingly joyful ride. Randalu unpacks every vow as a memory in the making. Eick’s own soloing lends depth and breadth, examining the self and bowing in humility to having known such happiness in a world filled with suffering.

“May” offers one of the strongest melodies of the album, jumping into the swimming pool of the heart and doing a full breast stroke for nearly five minutes. Randalu’s harmonizations are affectionately articulated and give the tune just the uplift it needs to separate from its shadow. Meanwhile, the underlying pulse from Hulbækmo is bold yet never overbearing. “Hope” is another star turn for Randalu, who genuinely feels like he has always been a part of the Eick orbit despite being a new collaborator. A quiet tenderness gives the pianist a wide canvas on which to paint, while Hulbækmo adds light and shadow only where needed.

The gravelly beginning of “Vejle” opens into some darker strains, even as dawn beckons. A bright groove ensues, sending Randalu on a sojourner’s mission in which the sacred and the profane align. Eick’s soloing is at its freest here and shows just how unbound he has become in his playing.

While all the qualities that listeners have come to expect from the bandleader—the unabashed cinematic qualities and flowing atmospheres—are all present, it’s as if the camera has zoomed in a bit more on Lullaby. We get more close-ups than panning shots. At first blush, it almost sounds like a Manu Katché record, and likely gives itself nakedly to the blush of our interpretation. But as the distinctive qualities of its interplay become clear, we bear witness to a collective voice unlike any other. The result is a watershed moment for all concerned.

This, along with Dino Saluzzi’s El Viejo Caminante, is an easy contender for the top release of 2025.

Joe Lovano: Homage (ECM 2845)

| Tyran Grillo

Joe Lovano
Homage

Joe Lovano tenor saxophone, tarogato, gongs
Marcin Wasilewski piano
Slawomir Kurkiewicz double bass
Michal Miskiewicz drums
Recorded November 2023
Van Gelder Studio, New Jersey
Engineers: Maureen Sickler and Don Sickler (assistant)
Mixed by Manfred Eicher and Michael Hinreiner (engineer)
Bavaria Musikstudios, Munich, October 2024
Cover: Fidel Sclavo
Album produced by Manfred Eicher
Release date: April 25, 2025

Saxophonist Joe Lovano’s collaboration with pianist Marcin Wasilewski, bassist Slawomir Kurkiewicz, and drummer Michal Miskiewicz has evolved remarkably since the release of Arctic Riff and En attendant. While the quartet was knee-deep in its Village Vanguard residency during the fall of 2023, they stepped into New Jersey’s Van Gelder Studio to record this album, riding the wave of their live performances. Those who may have questioned the quartet’s intentions the first two times around may just find themselves now humbled. The third time is indeed the charm and proof positive that self-examination is a vital part of what makes this such a human endeavor.

“Paying Homage, Giving Thanks, Projections and Reflections is a way of life for me,” writes Lovano in his liner note, and, perhaps more than ever, we can feel the visceral charge behind that philosophy, which guides his horn throughout six substantial tunes. Of those, only the opener, “Love In The Garden” by Zbigniew Seifert, bears the name of another composer. Not only is it a beautiful welcome, with pitch-perfect trio work and Lovano’s plasticity, but it also proves that where there’s smoke, there need not necessarily be fire. Lovano’s “Golden Horn” follows with 10 minutes of quasi-spiritual sound paths. In addition to tenor, he dialogues on percussion with Miskiewicz and later switches to the tarogato as the rhythms intensify. Such costume changes are playful and thoroughly enjoyable to encounter.

The title track pays tribute where it is due: “The piece is dedicated to Manfred and the label’s history,” Lovano says. “I grew up listening to ECM recordings, because those were the cats that I wanted to play with, and it turned out to be the music that gave me a lot of direction.” It’s also a testament to the label’s progression from free jazz to modern cool and everything in between, never wavering from a certain underlying ethos.

“This Side – Catville” is a veritable sound collage. Like a train running instead of rolling, it forgoes the tracks laid before it in favor of pushing its way through trees, over rivers, and around mountains in search of its own mode of being. Lovano is unbound, as is Wasilewski, who takes inspiration from the wake and stirs it into a fresh concoction over Kurkiewicz’s distinct bedrock. This 12-minute juggernaut is hugged by two brief improvisations from Lovano that are exploratory and never forced, showing that he is always in deference to the unknown.

I know not everyone has been keen on this project, but if anything, Homage proves that the worth of jazz isn’t always determined by its creature comforts. Rather, it depends on whether the listener feels acknowledged. And in that respect, we are invited with open arms and open hearts to sit, stay awhile, and nourish ourselves on music that fills more than the ears—it fills the belly as well.

Fred Hersch: The Surrounding Green (ECM 2836)

| Tyran Grillo

Fred Hersch
The Surrounding Green

Fred Hersch piano
Drew Gress double bass
Joey Baron drums
Recorded May 2024
Auditorio Stelio Molo RSI, Lugano
Engineer: Stefano Amerio
Cover: Andreas Kocks
Produced by Manfred Eicher
Release date: June 27, 2025

Pianist Fred Hersch’s ECM journey, brief as it has been so far, already feels like a lifetime in its emotional scope. Beginning in duet with legendary trumpeter Enrico Rava, followed by a solo album, he now returns to Lugano’s Auditorio Stelio Molo RSI for a trio session with bassist Drew Gress and drummer Joey Baron. Despite having played with either musician in various contexts for decades, this is their first studio album as a trio, and the result has all the makings of a classic—not by mere virtue of its talented assembly (which is reason enough to rejoice) but also for the easy confidence of its touch.

Hersch contributes three tunes to the proceedings, of which “Plainsong” is our port of entry. Its introductory lines are so nostalgic, you’d be forgiven for thinking you grew up with them. As the variegated spectrum of autumn gives way to winter, Hersch rides a slow-motion wave in search of warmer shelter, which he finds in the title track. The breadth of Hersch’s melodic sensibilities is breathtaking here, hinting at faraway places while remaining intimate. And in the Latin-tinged beauty of “Anticipation,” the piano dances in midair without a worry to weigh it down.

That Hersch’s writing holds its own alongside “Law Years” is a wonder in and of itself. Ornette Coleman’s untanglings contrast with the measured melancholy of the bandleader with an even freer charge. In addition to the geometrically astute interplay from Gress and Baron, what impresses is the amount of space Hersch folds into his soloing, which, despite being a mighty stream of consciousness, allows for plenty of pauses, breaths, and exploratory surprises.

“First Song” by Charlie Haden feels like an inevitable choice. It opens with a solo from Gress, melting into Hersch’s lines like butter before Baron’s brushes baste that flavor in one stroke at a time. Egberto Gismonti’s “Palhaço” is another, and one that ECM aficionados will recognize from the Magico trio sessions and a smattering of Carmo recordings. Its childlike whimsy speaks through rainlike washes of chords from the keys. But it is in the Gershwin brothers’ “Embraceable You” that the band finds the biggest depths to plumb. With a light touch but deep roots, Hersch unlocks a powerful energy that one must fight to escape.

One thing that distinguishes Hersch in the world of jazz piano is his way with endings. Having the destination written in his heart, he is that rare magician who, even after telling us how the trick is done, still leaves us astonished.

The Gurdjieff Ensemble: Zartir (ECM 2788)

| Tyran Grillo

The Gurdjieff Ensemble
Zartir

The Gurdjieff Ensemble
Levon Eskenian artistic director
Vladimir Papikyan voice, santur, burvar, tmbuk, singing bowls
Emmanuel Hovhannisyan duduk, pku
Meri Vardanyan kanon
Armen Ayvazyan kamancha, cymbal
Gagik Hakobyan duduk
Norayr Gapoyan duduk, bass duduk, pku
Avag Margaryan blul
Aram Nikoghosyan oud
Astghik Snetsunts kanon
Davit Avagyan tar
Mesrop Khalatyan dap, tmbuk, bells, triangle
Orestis Moustidis tombak
National Chamber Choir of Armenia
Robert Mlkeyan director
Recorded December 2021 at Radio Recording Studio, Yerevan
Engineer: Tigran Kuzikyan
Mixed November 2022
by Manfred Eicher, Levon Eskenian, Michael Hinreiner (engineer), and Tigran Kuzikyan (engineer)
at Bavaria Musikstudio, Munich
Cover photo: Still from Sergei Parajanov’s film The Color of Pomegranates
Album produced by Manfred Eicher
Release date: October 27, 2023

“Who can say that I will live from dawn till dusk? Man’s entry and man’s exit is simple work for the hand of God.”
–Sayat-Nova

Continuing the journey on which they first embarked for ECM in 2011, Levon Eskenian and The Gurdjieff Ensemble deepen their relationship with the enigmatic Georges I. Gurdjieff (c. 1877-1949). Given the mystery surrounding the Armenian-born teacher/philosopher, one can hardly say that the music on Zartir is a historically informed recreation. Rather, writes Steve Lake, “Eskenian’s ensemble resituates the music along the paths of its possible interpretations.” On said paths, one encounters travelers of Armenian, Assyrian, Greek, Caucasian, Kurdish, Persian, and Arabic persuasion, each a reflection of the other in the grander sense yet simultaneously individual enough to lend historico-cultural insight. Given that the bulk of Gurdjieff’s music is preserved in 250 pieces for piano (an instrument he saw as a compromise at best), Eskenian has once again brought new life (or is it old life?) to melodies that speak of their lineage more deeply than whatever we might glean from biographical speculations. Lake calls these “triple-distilled reverse transcriptions,” reflecting how they might have been intended to sound on the folk instruments that would surely have been a familiar soundtrack to Gurdjieff’s own itinerancy.

The album’s title, which means “Wake up!”, seems to evoke the Zen concept of satori, referring to a sudden enlightenment of mind, body, and spirit. However paltry that comparison might be, it nevertheless points to the undeniable alignment of this trifecta in the music arranged for us by Eskenian here. For example, in the twilit sagacity of “Pythia,” the first of many tears in the veil of obscurity, the mood is almost regal, as if welcoming some great royalty to step on a carpet woven just for the occasion, only to be torn to shreds and burned after so that no mere mortal feet dare taint it. At the same time, however, the palace and any tokens of grandeur it might contain are not on display. Rather, this is music that lives in the nooks and shadows of its architecture, so that we might know its inner secrets before sharing them with the world. Even in the briefest glimpses, including “Sayyid Chant and Dance No. 41” and “Oriental Dance,” we stand at the edge of a precipice with an eye seeking the unsettled territories as yet before us, ignoring the opulence at our backs. In “Introduction and Funeral Ceremony,” flight becomes possible so that we might leave the trappings of men in favor of the natural resources they all too often neglect. Whether in the sound of the duduk or the touch of percussion, the listener is rendered a spirit in search of a body, if only to feel the burden of gravity once again.

Beyond Gurdjieff himself, the program expands its reach to invoke the bards and troubadours of Aremania known as the ashughs, a tradition to which Eskenian’s father, Avedis (to whom this album is dedicated), was a vital link. This introduction of voices to the milieu adds another layer of fragile humanity. Ashugh Jivani (1846-1909) gives us

“Kankaravor Enker” (Friend of Talents), a poignant lament on the weaponization of humility in the land of the self-righteous. “Ee Nenjmanet Arkayakan Zartir” (From your royal slumber, awake) by Baghdasar Dbir (1683-1768) is a song of love from a distance (always from a distance). Nothing is ever touched, felt, or tasted; nothing more than an impression that must be concretized in music. And in the sound paintings of the legendary Sayat-Nova (1712-1795), namely “Dard Mi Ani (Do Not Fret)” and “Ashkharhes Me Panhjara e” (The World Is a Window), the mortality of love serves as a prayer against entropy.

Speaking of prayer, we end with Gurdjieff’s “The Great Prayer,” for which the National Chamber Choir of Armenia joins the ensemble. Eskenian calls this “one of the most profound and transformative pieces I have encountered in Gurdjieff’s work.” Indeed, it unfolds like a metastatement among metastatements. A culmination of life and death into a single neutral point, it is existence for its own sake, divine yet without doctrine, the lifeblood of our every waking hour.