Yuval Cohen soprano saxophone, melodica Tom Oren piano Alon Near double bass Alon Benjamini drums Recorded September 2023 Studios La Buissonne Engineer: Gérard de Haro Mixed April 2024 by Manfred Eicher and Gérard de Haro Cover: Fidel Sclavo Produced by Manfred Eicher Release date: February 14, 2025
Yuval Cohen, brother of ECM veteran Avishai Cohen, makes his debut for the label with Winter Poems. Over the course of eight originals, he elicits a flowing and unsettled realm with pianist Tom Oren, bassist Alon Near, and drummer Alon Benjamini. As the opening “First Meditation” indicates, the quartet’s interplay is one of loosely sewn borders, of bonds just strong enough to offer a sense of cohesion while allowing for expressive individuality in the afterglow of stated themes.
The soprano saxophonist attributes his clean tone and sense of attunement to his classical training. In tracks like “The Dance of the Nightingale” and “Avia,” each the emotional opposite of the other, he showcases the breadth of his technical precision in creating blossoming narratives with minimal means. But where the former tune’s smoky balladry and the latter’s childlike exuberance seem worlds apart on paper, in execution, they share that special form of veracity that only freedom within constraints allows.
The title track is anchored by a river’s current of an arpeggio in the piano. At the same time, the bass and cymbals provide an all-encompassing mesh through which the air of Cohen’s reed can pass without obstruction to fuel a gorgeous collectivity that tugs at the heart. Speaking of heart, “Song for Lo Am” takes its influence from the playing of Charles Lloyd, whose unadulterated songcraft comes through. At Cohen’s fingertips, the saxophone communicates without fear, letting its bluesy shades speak for themselves across the night. “For Charlie” references Chaplin. It examines the film icon’s inner charm, the tender way about him that viewers can’t help but connect with on an empathetic level. Oren’s pianism is golden, and Near’s bassing lumbers in that same endearing way, all enhanced by Cohen’s nostalgic turns on the melodica.
“The Unfolding Nature of Iris” is another affectionate scene, this one perhaps more rooted in the present, as if being written in real time. Near’s solo is pure poetry and a highlight of the session, while the delicacy of Benjamini’s brushed drums adds detail only where needed. Lastly, “Helech Ruach” draws inspiration from Sasha Argov’s “Hu Lo Yada Et Shma,” adopting an open approach as the band sways telepathically into a joyful rest.
Dino Saluzzi bandoneón Jacob Young acoustic steel-string guitar, electric guitar José Maria Saluzzi classical guitar Recorded April 2023 at Saluzzi Music Studio, Buenos Aires Recording engineers: Néstor Diaz and Lobo Zepol Mixed February 2025 by Néstor Diaz at La Montaña Studio, Madrid Cover photo: Woong Chul An Executive producer: Manfred Eicher Release date: July 11, 2025
I can think of few souls who exude such innate musicality as Dino Saluzzi. At his fingertips, the bandoneón turns photographs into cinema, working its way into corners of the heart one never knew existed—or, more accurately, those we’ve long forgotten but only now recall. That he still has so much to say at age 90 is a testament not only to his endurance but also to the infinite power of music to link the lives of performers and listeners in an unbroken chain. The appropriately titled El Viejo Caminante (The Old Wanderer) finds him in the company of his son, José Maria Saluzzi (on classical guitar), and Jacob Young (on acoustic steel-string and electric guitars).
The project was seeded in 2022 when Young came to Argentina to perform a series of concerts with José. After hearing them on stage in Buenos Aires, Dino invited the Norwegian guitarist to come back the following year, resulting in the present record. But if the opening strains of “La Ciudad De Los Aires Buenos” are any indication, their sound is far deeper in the making than a chance encounter would have us believe. Father Saluzzi primes this canvas with a yielding gesso before the guitarists render their scenery in real time, never missing a single stroke in their duetting. The color contrasts between steel and nylon are a sunflower and its shadow swaying in unison with the wind. As the bellows return, the clouds cast their veil against the sun so that we can till the land just a little longer.
From this inward reflection, we expand into outward travels in “Northern Sun.” Without a hint of coercion, the guitars glide and tumble as if they were made for the terrain of this Karin Krog classic. At the whim of a creative gravity, they move in concert with every change. Like the standard “My One And Only Love” that closes out the set, the tune lays down its cards with a twinkle of the eye.
Dino contributes a broad selection of pieces, including the nostalgia-laden “Buenos Aires 1950” and the title track. The fullness of the latter’s inner dialogue is made possible only by the space its composer allows. Even more heartfelt moments are to be found in “Mi Hijo Y Yo,” a duet with José that speaks in a language born of shared triumphs and tribulations. The son’s muted touch lends an air of reverence for the father. Their tenderness continues in “Someday My Prince Will Come,” turning this standard into a mellifluous anthem. Between them is “Tiempos De Ausencias,” which adopts a slightly abstract form of hindsight. As Young joins in, what began as a private conversation turns into the delicate banter of old friends. More of the same flows into “Y Amo A Su Hermano,” in which every line plays an equal role. With the utmost empathy, it ebbs and flows with the tide.
Young adds his own touch to the proceedings with three originals. In “Quiet March,” his electric adds nocturnal depth. “Dino Is Here” was written for the occasion and provides ample room for the musicians to coalesce into a dynamic tango. Meanwhile, “Old House” epitomizes the art of listening, each player given time to say exactly what they need to say.
As freely flowing as this music is, it is by no means carefree. Indeed, great attention to detail has gone into every turn of phrase, and not a single note feels wasted. Such economy of expression is what elevates the session as a wonder. Through the lens of personal experience, it brings forth truth, knowing that when we look back on things, certain details inevitably cut into frame. Though painful at the time, they become a necessary part of the landscape of our lives, songs waiting to be sung when we are old enough to handle them without fear.
Savina Yannatou voice Lamia Bedioui voice Primavera en Salonico Kostas Vomvolos qanun, accordion Harris Lambrakis nay Kyriakos Gouventas violin Yannis Alexandris oud Michalis Siganidis double bass Dine Doneff percussion, waterphone Recorded March 2022 at Sierra Studios, Athens Engineer: Yiorgos Kariotis Mastering: Christoph Stickel Cover photo: Woong Chul An Album produced by Manfred Eicher Release date: April 11, 2025
For her fifth ECM album, Greek singer Savina Yannatou returns with a collection of songs themed around water. Spanning the European continent and beyond, her sources draw from wells of uniquely situated cultures and traditions, where the elemental force that sustains us can be at once beatific and menacing. Along with her mainstay musicians, Primavera en Salonico, she is joined by Tunisian singer Lamia Bedioui, last heard alongside Yannatou on Terra Nostra, and whose Arabic inflections lend interlocking contrast to the Mediterranean flavors.
The soul of the set list is to be found in the Greek material, of which “The Song of Klidonas” brings that distinctive voice into frame, while violin and oud dot the sky with extra stars. Yannatou links these into a storyboard of constellations. Similar vibrations abound in “The Immortal Water,” which moves like a body in the throes of unrequited love, while “Kalanta of the Theophany” turns a solemn carol into a jazzy free-for-all. Yannatou and her band further skirt the edges of interpretation in “Perperouna,” which describes water as something prayed for to ensure a harvest for survival. A percussive backdrop lends uplift, violin and nay soaring as birds catching a tailwind.
While island hopping from Cyprus (“Ai Giorkis,” a hymn to Saint George) to Corsica (“O onda,” a paean to ocean waves and distant storms by G. P. Lanfranchi), we encounter a gallery of moods, times, and places, including “Sia maledetta l’acqua” (Cursed Be the Water), a playful 15th-century gem, plus two journeys farther north. In the Gaelic “An Ròn” (The Seal), the qanun plays the role of harp, filling the air with shades of green and blue. And in “Full Fathom Five,” Robert Johnson’s 17th-century setting of words from Shakespeare’s The Tempest, percussionist Dine Doneff plays the waterphone for a haunting evocation of entropy. But nowhere is the beauty so deep as in “A los baños del amor” (At the Baths of Love). This anonymous ballad from 16th-century Spain configures water as a sign of loneliness, a space to drown one’s sorrows. It is also something of a sister to “Con qué la lavaré?” (With What Shall I Wash It?) by El Cançoner del Duc de Calabria (1526-1554), another astonishingly lyrical melody, held in the most delicate of frames. It expresses that same sense of solitude, but with a hint of resignation to fate.
Bedioui’s contributions are worlds unto themselves, especially because of the bridges they build. “Naanaa Algenina” (Garden Mint), an Egyptian traditional from Aswan, finds a suitable partner in “Ivana” from North Macedonia. Where one opens in duet as a moonflower, the other turns mystical in its freer geographies. “Mawal” (To the Mourning Dove, I Said) sets the poetry of Aby Firas al-Hamdani (10th century) to music by Iraqi singer-songwriter Nazem al-Ghazali, meshing Bedioui’s spoken word with Yannatou’s improvisational underlayment, hand drums marking the unprimed canvas with their ink. Finally, “Alla Musau” (God of Moses), a Nubian song about baptizing infants in the Nile, is interwoven with the African American spiritual “Wade in the Water.” The result is unexpected and wondrous.
As always, Primavera en Salonico’s chameleonic abilities are as free as they are precise. Playing both an anticipatory and reflective role, the band unpacks as many vocal implications as possible without the aid of words. Of the same mind, they walk in unison, even as their speech draws lines between increasingly disparate tongues.
Louis Sclavis clarinet, bass clarinet Benjamin Moussay piano Recorded March 2024 at Studios La Buissonne, Pernes-les-Fontaines Engineer: Gérard de Haro Mastering: Nicolas Baillard Cover photo: Péter Nádas Produced by Manfred Eicher Release date: September 13, 2024
The pairing of clarinetist Louis Sclavis and pianist Benjamin Moussay, born of larger group collaborations on past work for ECM (including 2019’s Characters on a Wall), yields a program of fresh material penned by both musicians. Moussay’s writing, which comprises the lion’s share, comes into its own with smooth confidence from the start in the title track. Its invocational sound lends an air of providence to all that follows, which is indeed an unfolding of creative impulses into a grander narrative that takes shape one track at a time.
Extending the pianist’s signature is “Loma del Tanto.” A whispering keyboard introduces itself before the clarinet writes the names of faded others across a foggy window, breathing warm air to obscure them. This process repeats, each time a little bit differently, in a cycle of self-reflection. “None” has a more free-flowing quality. It seeks to spread anxieties until they are transparent enough to walk through. The slightly abstract and dissonant touches always return to harmonic resolutions, and the theme’s restatement assures us that all is well in the end. Other highlights from Moussay include the mysterious distortions of “L’heure du loup” and “Snow,” the latter an empathetic benediction that touches the past as if it were a physical substance.
If Sclavis’s voice, especially as spoken through the bass clarinet, is a multifaceted presence in these pieces, then so much more as a composer. Whether in the extradimensional fantasies of “L’étendue” or the phenomenally reactive improvising of “Somebody Leaves,” he is a master at delineating expressive space. In this and other respects, the album’s pinnacle is “A Garden in Ispahan.” Its piano arpeggios trace a wall of protection around the clarinet, whose lucid dreaming gives rise to an organic state flow. Like the set as a whole, it is a viewfinder into itself, ad infinitum.
Stephan Micus tiple, dilruba, sattar, chord zither, tableharp, nay, sapeh All music and voices composed and performed by Stephan Micus Recorded 2021-2023 at MCM Studios Cover art: Eduard Micus (1925-2000) An ECM Production Release date: November 15, 2024
my house burned down now I have a better view of the rising moon –Masahide Mizuta (1657-1723)
To step into a new Stephan Micus recording is to approach a koan from the inside out. For while every world he creates feels immediately familiar, there’s also something about it that distances us from ourselves. In To The Rising Moon, his 26th solo album for ECM, he unravels an out-of-body experience through characteristically novel combinations, transcending cultural and historical borders in search of a collective humanity.
His narratives always seem to have a central protagonist; this time, it is the tiple. Sounding like a charango but with a looser feel, it is the national instrument of Colombia, but in the present context, it steps out of space and time into its own. “To The Rising Sun” features two of them: one to establish a percussive jangle, the other to sing through its contours. Building a monument one stone at a time, even as Micus scales it, he comes prepared with the finishing capstone, so that we can fully admire the valley of which it affords a sacred view. This format is later replicated in “Unexpected Joy,” which has all the internal tension of a young warrior walking through the forest on his first solo hunt, and in “To The Lilies In The Fields,” where gemstones rounded by the river’s current are ignored in favor of the greater value of leaving them as they are. “In Your Eyes” increases the count to three and adds a lone voice. Its juxtaposition of steel strings and Micus’s rounded singing gives us room to explore. At the heart of all this is “The Silver Fan,” a tiple solo through which light and shadow merge with a kiss.
On the topic of voices, another prominent one is the dilruba, an Indian bowed instrument with sympathetic strings. Six of these band together for “Dream Within Dream,” painting a realm where the physical world recedes into the farthest corners of consciousness. The sound is thin and incisive. Like wisdom offered by a sage on his deathbed, its truth can never be forgotten. The dilruba finds a long-lost brother in “Embracing Mysteries,” where the sapeh, a four-stringed lute from Borneo (normally plucked but modified to be played with a bow), evokes nature and nurture in equal measure. Meanwhile, Micus’s voice cuts the figure of a traveler with a rucksack filled with hymns, which he drops in place of crumbs.
Yet another member of this ad hoc family is the sattar, a long-necked bowed instrument of the Uigur people. In triplicate, it elicits one of Micus’s most spiritual creations: “The Veil.” He runs his hands gently across, feeling every pleat and fold as if it were an era of history to be navigated. In that sense, there is also mourning for the past and a hope that all the destruction we’ve brought has not ultimately been in vain. Despite taking part in the album’s largest ensemble in “Waiting For The Nightingale” (which brings together two dilruba with five sattar, five voices, three Cambodian flutes, and two chord zithers), the result feels open, a spider’s web touched with dew that has withstood an entire day’s worth of climatic change. Micus’s chorusing is a call to the wilderness within. The sattar also binds three tableharps (which combine elements of bowed psaltery, zither, and harp) in “The Flame,” leaving blurred traces of its past like paintings on stone. Finally, in the title track (alongside two tiples and two nay), it is a birthing ground of fluidity and purpose. Having nowhere else to go but inward, it bows its head in offering to silence, a prayer without words to get in the way of meaning.
Palle Mikkelborg trumpet, flugelhorn Jakob Bro guitar Marilyn Mazur percussion Recorded live at the Danish Radio Concert Hall Copenhagen, February 2023 Engineer: Thomas Vang Cover photo: Jan Kricke An ECM Production Release date: November 24, 2023
Recorded in February 2023 at the Danish Radio Concert Hall, this live performance convenes trumpeter Palle Mikkelborg, guitarist Jakob Bro, and percussionist Marilyn Mazur in what Bro has described as a “homecoming.” The trio’s free exploration of original material leaves the faintest of fingerprints on the air, so all we are left with are impressions, memories, and instincts to hold on to. And yet, for all their ephemerality, they are undeniably indelible.
Bro contributes most of the tunes, although to call them that risks undermining the quasi-physical stretching each undergoes before it coalesces into something recognizable. All the while, there is something familiar about even the most abstract passages of examination. The first proof of this theorem is Bro’s “Gefion,” an eponymous nod to his ECM leader debut. It opens with echoing horn, sparkling percussion (including bowed metals for added shimmer), and a web of dreams strung across the night to catch as many falling stars as possible in the afterglow. “Oktober” waters the same seeds, unfolding as a piece of paper, each rectangle a scene waiting to be sketched in by the writing instruments of memory. Mikkelborg is like a ghost in the background while Mazur’s hand drums flutter in search of a body to house it. The feeling of stasis is so profound as to hold the listener suspended between materiality and immateriality. By contrast, “Returnings” (co-written by Mikkelborg and Bro) brings a more wrought-iron sound to bear. Speaking in the language of guttural distortion, while electronics flash through the foreground, it brings plenty of fuel to keep it burning. Mazur’s ritualistic beatings imbue an ancient charge, finishing in gossamer stretches of wisdom.
The title track and the concluding “Lyskaster” find their composer weaving his guitar into a hammock. Its gentle sway gives life to the dreams of his bandmates, melting into a swath of desert where forces not only align but also pass through each other. Between them is Mikkelborg’s “Youth.” Mazur’s understated fervency gives color, while Bro expands the view beyond the stage to reveal a world without borders.
Fans of Jon Hassell will find much to admire in this album, which, of course, has its own feel for texture and storytelling. A special document for fans of any of these three musicians, if not all.
Dominique Pifarély violin François Couturier piano Recorded October 2023, Historischer Reistadel, Neumarkt Engineer: Markus Heiland Mixed April 2024 by Manfred Eicher and Michael Hinreiner (engineer) at Bavaria Musikstudios, Munich Cover photo: Woong Chul An Produced by Manfred Eicher Release date: January 24, 2025
What threw us together, shrieks apart, a worldstone, sun-distant, hums. –Paul Celan
The last duo session for ECM from pianist François Couturier and Dominique Pifarély was recorded in 1997 (Poros). Since then, these musicians have paved roads uniquely their own in span and material across the label’s catalog, but always with each other in sight. For this reunion, they explore an absorbing melange of originals and standards. Of the latter, we are treated to characteristically shifting interpretations of Jacques Brel’s “La chanson des vieux amants” and George Gershwin’s “I Loves You Porgy.” Pifarély’s instrument cuts a figure struggling to hold its shape in the wavering heat, its microtonal plasticity yielding haunting textures. Equal parts lyrical and contortional, both tunes find kindred company in Manning Sherwin’s “A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley,” which manages to stay soulful throughout every twist and turn. With a touch of rain and softness on the horizon, it sings of clearer and brighter days before giving way to Pifarély’s “Les ombres II,” a spiral staircase turned inside out. Its counterpart, “Les ombres I,” begins the album with string-forward resolve, morphing into a reflective take on J. J. Johnson’s “Lament,” which barely disturbs the water’s surface before it fades. Further highlights abound in the violinist’s “Vague” and “What Us.” By turns brooding and whimsical, they prove that contemplation isn’t always pretty—nor must it be, until the decorations of hindsight fall into hand. Couturier’s colorations are astute and adaptive throughout. From pressing chords to baptismal sprinklings, there is much to savor. His own “Le surcroît I” and “Le surcroît II” cut against the grain of reality in the most intriguing way, time capsules of impressions saying only what needs to be said, while “Song for Harrison” (co-composed with Pifarély and named for Couturier’s cocker spaniel) playfully breaks into Duke Ellington’s “Solitude” for an artful contrast of layers. Each is a cipher that also serves as its solution, spinning the cryptex into new possibilities with every listen.
Benjamin Lackner piano Mathias Eick trumpet Mark Turner tenor saxophone Linda May Han Oh double bass Matthieu Chazarenc drums Recorded March 2024 at Studios La Buissonne Engineer: Gérard de Haro Mastering: Nicolas Baillard Cover: Fidel Sclavo Produced by Manfred Eicher Release date: January 17, 2025
After leaving a sizable footprint in ECM soil with Last Decade, pianist Benjamin Lackner takes us one step further with a fresh quintet, bringing us closer to a vision of identity. Although the music is more through-composed in the present context, it lends itself to the spontaneous inventions of trumpeter Mathias Eick, saxophonist Mark Turner, bassist Linda May Han Oh, and drummer Matthieu Chazarenc (a member of Lackner’s trio prior to ECM). From all of this emerges a moving picture that is equal parts brooding and hope.
The title track bids welcome with a reed-forward introduction, as the piano sweeps up and down its registers in the twinkling of cymbals before a flowing denouement ensues. Lackner’s pianism is revelatory yet humble, never appropriating center stage. Rather, he lets his allies speak—and speak they do. Whether it’s Turner’s forthright turns of phrase or Oh’s chameleonic acuity, this brew remains communal to the last drop.
The breezy beginning of “Mosquito Flats” shifts into an even breezier theme, where the wishes of an entire generation fade in favor of a timeless desire for harmony amid a slow-motion urban swing. The two horns forge tempered fire in exchange for the final recapitulation. Their duetting continues in “More Mesa,” another unassuming tune that is nevertheless robust in its way.
Chazarenc contributes “Chambary,” a track smothered in upbeat textures and wild (yet subtle) leaps, without a shred of pretension. It’s a highlight for being as deep as it is concise. It finds a genuine companion in “See You Again My Friend,” an especially tender vehicle for Eick, who later converses with Oh in safe seclusion from the dissonant strains of “Murnau.” By contrast, the feeling of anticipation in “Fair Warning” is almost unsettling, as if the fabric of reality could tear at any moment, revealing a nightmare.
I so appreciate Lackner’s willingness to blow-dry notes before they become too wet. This holds the listener’s attention and enlivens mid-tempo pieces like “Anacapa,” which also elicits my favorite solo on the album from the bandleader (neither can one forget Oh on “Ahwahnee,” where her touch sings of the very earth). And yet, no matter how much shadow clouds our vision, “Out Of The Fog” leaves behind an intimation of light. As it resolves into a collective hymnody, we see that the characters in this story have been seeking healing individually, only to find it in one another.
Spindrift is a screen lit by a single projector in an otherwise dark room. By focusing on the narratives before our eyes, it gives us the luxury of ignoring what lies behind them. Many of the films that repeatedly run through our minds are traumatic reflections of the media we consume daily. Here, we have an opportunity to engage with stories of wholesome reflection in which the soul needs no likes counter to validate itself.
Oded Tzur tenor saxophone Nitai Hershkovits piano Petros Klampanis double bass Cyrano Almeida drums Recorded November 2023 at Studios La Buissonne, Pernes-les-Fontaines Engineer: Gérard de Haro Mastering Nicolas Baillard Produced by Manfred Eicher Release date: June 7, 2024
For his third ECM album as leader, following the shadowy Here Be Dragons and the short but sweet Isabela, saxophonist Oded Tzur returns alongside pianist Nitai Hershkovits and bassist Petros Klampanis, plus drummer Cyrano Almeida (replacing Johnathan Blake from the previous lineup). A few years ago, I interviewed Tzur but neglected to incorporate our conversation into a review. However, I find that his answers remain as relevant to the present session as they were when he so graciously offered them, so I felt it appropriate to include his insights to enhance our regard for this latest star in his emerging constellation.
Rather than try to put his music into a rigid box—Is it Raga? Is it Jazz?—I asked whether Tzur would ever ascribe a “genre” to his musical style. His response:
“I call it ‘Deep Structure,’ which is a reference to Noam Chomsky’s theory of linguistics. Chomsky claims all languages share certain features that are concealed by surface elements, which he calls ‘Surface Structure.’ Sometimes, it does seem a little limited to put things in categories, especially when a work’s influence spectrum ranges from South Asia to North America. However, it isn’t completely false to place a piece of music in a continuum so people have a frame of reference. It’s just that those continuums are getting trickier nowadays because the world moves in the direction of unification, at least if we compare it to 100, 500, or 1000 years ago. My personal journey has led me to feel strongly that all musical traditions share certain elements, and while they also have distinct features and differences, those shared elements are crucial and often hidden. Joseph Campbell’s views on religion make the same point, in a way, where the commonalities between different mythologies are simply too precise and striking to be dismissed as coincidence. What Raga—the Indian melodic universe—shows us about sound and melody can be seen in synagogue prayers as well as the Blues.”
Taking these reflections to heart empowers us to hear the alpha in every omega, as embodied in “Epilogue,” which happens to initiate the set. Tzur’s uniquely vocal tone elicits a brief and resounding call to gather the remnants of our speech as an offering to something so deeply communicative that we can only resort to the fluid intensities of “Child You.” The second of six intimate tracks casts his metaphysical virtuosity as an inevitability rather than a choice. He finds a graceful interplay with Klampanis, whose inner feelings correlate one by one. Furthermore, his entanglement with Hershkovits provides ample room for our ears to breathe, building tone upon tone as a gradual monument of stones.
With so much focus on his sound, it’s only natural to ask about the many years of discipline and refinement (or is it unrefinement?) that go into it. How has it, I wonder, changed over time, and how does he see it possibly changing in the future?
“The process certainly began in Jazz for me, transcribing Dexter Gordon, John Coltrane, and many others. The encounter with Indian classical music and my time with Hariprasad Chaurasia was a pivotal turn because I didn’t want to play an Indian instrument; I felt like the sound I was hearing was another way or another version of the saxophone sound. The influence of Indian instruments, for which the octave is a continuous spectrum rather than 12 dots, has had on me is very significant. I followed Chaurasia’s sound as closely as possible for a number of years and didn’t want to give myself the excuse of ‘I’m playing the saxophone.’ For the future, I hope to continue to work on ways in which microtonality can be accessed on the saxophone, as well as aligning those techniques efficiently with the more traditional sound of the instrument.”
Consider that goal embraced in “Through A Land Unsown,” where that same human timbre arises into waking. Despite the softness of articulation, it reveals a hard-won truth that can only be possible when shedding enough desire to block the past from assaulting the flesh. The brilliance of his playing is that it never forgets the past, either, taking what it has learned without succumbing to its temptations of self-glorification. Klampanis’s solo here draws inspiration from that spirit. Again, Hershkovits carries this basket down a river of unexpected turns and textural currents, ultimately landing in the reeds where it was meant to be discovered. Throughout, Almeida conveys an uncanny ability to foresee every move the others make. His drive continues in “Renata,” forging a pulse within a pulse that lends itself to the heart without force while Tzur’s tenor navigates all of this with purposeful intuition. The drummer’s brushes are flashes of heat lightning in the title track, a muscular gift from above that works its way through nocturnal shades of meaning.
With so much to interpret in these inward gazes, what is Tzur’s greatest wish for his listener?
“Music is a way to learn about ourselves because music can create experiences that are revelatory in their nature. Learning history is also an excellent—and perhaps more urgently needed—way to learn about ourselves. Music is a more abstract form, like prayer or meditation. If I can create music that would reveal to people things that they didn’t know before—or, even better, knew and forgot—I would have fulfilled an important musical goal.”
And in the concluding “Last Bike Ride In Paris,” we find that ethos in full display. With a joyful sound, sunlit and smiling, the rhythm section connects telepathically as a cage for Tzur’s bird to sing and—eventually—transcend in flight to the next journey beyond the mountains. Some of his most inspired playing is to be found here, watering every root with an inspired future.
Although nothing about My Prophet necessarily implies a trilogy, the progression of album covers suggests otherwise. Whereas Here Be Dragons features standard typography and photography, Isabela shows a bordered image with black and blue typography. And now, we get only the latter against a white background. It’s as if the ornaments have been stripped away with every iteration. All of which proves that even with the flurry of notes, there is stillness to be savored. Like a hummingbird, Tzur’s playing works hard and at great expense of energy to hover in place.
Between Sound and Space: ECM Records and Beyond 