Jazz

Vijay Iyer: Mutations (ECM 2372)

| Tyran Grillo

Mutations

Vijay Iyer
Mutations

Vijay Iyer piano, electronics
Miranda Cuckson violin
Michi Wiancko violin
Kyle Armbrust viola
Kivie Cahn-Lipman violoncello
Recorded September 2013 at Avatar Studios, New York
Engineer: James A. Farber
Assistant: Tim Marchiafava
Produced by Manfred Eicher

In a brief liner note, MacArthur-winning pianist and composer Vijay Iyer defines the title of his ECM debut as “the noise in our genes.” The eponymous decalogue for piano, string quartet and electronics puts this theory into sonic practice with such organicity that fans and newcomers alike will find this laboratory to be a fascinating place in which to marvel at every biological compound. Having studied violin for 15 years, Iyer is anything but a stranger to the sounds of the string quartet, and so inclusion of that reduced orchestra is as timely as the gestures encoded into his score. Although one might read any number of influences into the piece (Terry Riley comes immediately to mind in the introductory movement, “Air,” and in the third, “Canon”), Iyer’s sound-world is very much its own ecosystem, where the randomness of sprouting leaves is just as vital as, and exists as an expression of, the roots that feed them. Subtitles thus reflect more the physical than emotional structure of individual movements. Some are more overt. “Rise,” for instance, consists of a rising tone that falls in on itself at the insistence of sirens and has its partner in the penultimate “Descent,” while small bursts of mechanical activity throughout “Automata” identify its clockwork soul behind the tasteful electronic appliqué. This is the key tone of the emerging landscape, drawn in the hue of dusk. Other portions are less obvious, such as “Chain,” which creates a feeling of linkage by the notes not played. Three distinct forces—the click track, piano, and strings—achieve remarkable unity here. From the concentrated (“Kernel”) to the frenetic (“Clade”), and even to the docked-boat knocking of “Time,” which closes out, the feeling is always one of fractals: the closer you get, the more detail is revealed. This might very well serve to describe Iyer’s entire output so far.

At the periphery of this program the listener will find three solo piano works that are anything but peripheral. Spellbound and Sacrosanct, Cowrie Shells and the Shimmering Sea, as the initiatory phase of both the album and a hopefully longstanding relationship with ECM, speaks with Iyer’s characteristic attention to detail. Contrasting pedaled sustains and shallower drops, he displays an unusual awareness of the piano’s timbral capabilities. In other words, he infuses the piano with a deeper knowledge of itself. He achieves this with no small effort of restraint, lest his territories become too ephemeral to grasp. The final two pieces factor electronics into the equation. Vuln, Part 2 emerges from an astutely urban palette. Augmented by a muffled bass beat, like that of trunk-mounted subwoofers as heard from a neighboring street, serves not as a rhythmic guide but as a reminder of the regularity and therefore fallibility of abstraction. Iyer illustrates that even the most fleeting movements of body and mind are driven by impulses that, when seen from far enough away, become regular and may even disappear. The piano’s beauties, then, exist only to be sworn to secrecy. When We’re Gone is the coda, and as such is trained to open two doors for each one closed. In its starker expansion of time, reflections of mortality tremble like icicles desirous of melting. So do we end as we began: at that indefinable edge between formation and destruction.

(To hear samples of Mutations, you may watch the EPK above or click here.)

Jacob Young: Forever Young (ECM 2366)

| Tyran Grillo

Forever Young

Jacob Young
Forever Young

Jacob Young guitars
Trygve Seim tenor and soprano saxophones
Marcin Wasilewski piano
Slawomir Kurkiewicz double bass
Michal Miskiewicz drums
Recorded August 2013 at Rainbow Studio, Oslo
Engineer: Jan Erik Kongshaug
Produced by Manfred Eicher

Forever Young is all Young. Jacob Young, that is. The Norwegian-American guitarist made his ECM debut with 2004’s Evening Falls, on which he joined a group of label regulars for a nuanced and strangely familiar encounter. Now for his third round (incidentally the title of a Manu Katché album on which he also appeared), Young enlists the help of saxophonist Trygve Seim and the Marcin Wasilewski Trio for an all-original set with all the evocative precision admirers will have come to expect.

Young band

Young’s experiences in Katche’s band seem to have rubbed off on two tunes. The mid-tempo groove of “Bounce” is luscious and slick as rain, and sports a solo from Young’s electric that lights up the night with its pale fire. “Sofia’s Dance,” for its part, is an acoustic-led excursion driven by drummer Michal Miskiewicz. Young sets a duly environmental precedent with his harp-strung picking, which is then fleshed out by Wasilewski toward some awesome group unity.

This dichotomy between instruments continues throughout the album, of which the acoustic tracks are marked by relaxed conversations. In this vein, Young and Seim share a musical relationship that reveals depth of friendship. The saxophonist often picks up the guitarist’s lunar phases and carries them toward new moon. In “Therese’s Gate,” for one, Seim emotes with the bareness of an experienced singer. This allows Young all the more room to stretch his fingers in that same vein of sincere expressiveness. Wasilewski’s pianism is notable for its beauty, as also in the track of the same name. “Beauty” finds Young in a strumming mood, thereby throwing more spotlight on the pianist and his wondrous rhythm section (hat tip to bassist Slawomir Kurkiewicz). The album’s opener, “I Lost My Heart To You,” brings all of these elements together and more. A stellar intro from the keyboard drops a starlit curtain, from behind which Young’s foundations begin a winning melodic combination, even as Miskiewicz’s cymbals leave shining breadcrumbs toward sunrise. It’s an ideal place to start for the way it frames Young’s guitar as one element in a fair trade system. Like the arcs of a group of ice skaters on a forest pond, the musicians’ collective tracery implies many infinities.

The plugged-in tracks are smoother. Young’s virtuosity is on full display in “We Were Dancing” but, true to form, constructs with sensitivity intact and leaves space for Kurkiewicz’s light unpacking. “1970” names the year of Young’s birth, and is brimming with flower power. The gymnastic soloing adds to its charm. “Time Changes” is another summery piece of nostalgia, which behind its upbeat veneer cradles a strangely meditative soul. Young takes us to school with unpretentious grace, as Wasilewski’s trio measures every detail around him. The album ends on a reflective note with “My Brother.” And what better place to leave us than in the spirit of family? For we, too, are welcomed to share in the love, forever young and impervious to the critic’s words.

(To hear samples of Forever Young, click here.)

Muthspiel/Grenadier/Blade: Driftwood (ECM 2349)

| Tyran Grillo

Driftwood

Driftwood

Wolfgang Muthspiel guitar
Larry Grenadier double bass
Brian Blade drums
Recorded May 2013 at Rainbow Studio, Oslo
Engineer: Jan Erik Kongshaug
Produced by Manfred Eicher

After making his ECM debut in the company of Ralph Towner and Slava Grigoryan on 2013’s Travel Guide, Austrian guitarist Wolfgang Muthspiel takes on his first leader date for the label. And with good cause, because its sounds have been an important part of his evolution as an artist, not least of all through his studies with the great Mick Goodrick. With such a background to go on, it should be no surprise that Muthspiel is a suitable fit for, while also expanding the exploratory mission of, ECM. And in the fine company of bassist Larry Grenadier and drummer Brian Blade, his star shines even more brightly.

Muthspiel and friends

Excepting the regenerating spiral of the instantaneously composed title track, all tunes are from Muthspiel’s pen, artfully shuffled between electric and acoustic leads. The former bookend the set, starting with the tracery of “Joseph”—in the center of which Muthspiel exploits a range of effects, from grunge to echoing parabolas in single turns of phrase—and ending with “Bossa for Michael Brecker,” an appropriately marbled tribute to the late, great saxophonist. Its opening gestures paint the dotted center line down a road that continues even after the album nominally ends. Muthspiel sails across its pavement toward a classic unity. The electric guitar glows with subconscious hues in the pastel-colored “Highline,” in which its overdubbed ghost keens distantly as the rhythm section gathers momentum for a runway jam that seems about to lift off at any moment but is content in dancing with the anticipation of doing so. And in “Lichtzelle” (Light cell), that same guitar joins drums in a duet of seeking points and lines.

“Uptown” starts off the acoustic selections in groovier territory and, from the underlying pulse and slightly dissonant borders, reveals a touch of Towner. Between the delicious syncopation and a nimble solo from Grenadier, it turns out to be one of the most unforgettable tracks to come from ECM in a long time. “Cambiata” is a uniform, laid-back piece of cinematic beauty, while “Madame Vonn” is the album’s consummate ballad. As the ponderous shadow of “Uptown,” it has a classic—if also melancholic—skin.

Driftwood may be a study in contrasts, but is ultimately one of enmeshment. It shows a musician not at the top of his game, but embodying the game itself, working his fingers into the strings with meticulous freedom until each scores a quiet, melodic goal without the need for fanfare.

(To hear samples of Driftwood, click here.)

Colin Vallon Trio: Le Vent (ECM 2347)

| Tyran Grillo

Le Vent

Colin Vallon Trio
Le Vent

Colin Vallon piano
Patrice Moret double bass
Julian Sartorius drums
Recorded April 2013 at Rainbow Studio, Oslo
Engineer: Jan Erik Kongshaug
Produced by Manfred Eicher

Rruga marked the ECM debut of a peerless piano trio, and with that release opened new doors for the format. Pianist Colin Vallon again joins bassist Patrice Moret, and together with new drummer Julian Sartorius they unhinge those doors in absence of need. With an even more refined geometry, one that borders on white magic, these three young men quietly draft an unforgettable statement for the 21st century. Aside from being a master class in texture and atmosphere, Le Vent mines the element of surprise as if it were ore in rock. As the trio builds its quarry, it reveals itself as a creature of ritual. If Tord Gustavsen’s trio is the x axis (marking time) and Bobo Stenson’s is the y (marking distance), then Vallon’s selfless band is the z, by which we might gauge jazz’s inter-dimensional potential.

Vallon Trio

Moret’s sole compositional offering is also the album’s most significant. “Juuichi” opens the set with pulsing, unified chords. The title is an intriguing one, being Japanese for the number 11, and could refer to many things (I’m inclined to think of it as related to the stumbling time signature that shadows its every move). Growing in brightness and presence, it builds toward quiet reflection, spawning a tide of minnows. One immediately notices the care with which the trio builds its sonic worlds, each an ode to the value of patience. These musicians prove that, while indeed the best things come to those who wait, one must make music of the waiting for art to be born.

Skipping to the album’s end lands us in two freely improvised tracks: “Styx” and “Coriolis.” Both highlight Sartorius’s delicacy with brush and wand as he un-knots planks of wood until the album’s vessel resigns itself to a beautiful sinking. In these final statements are whispers of many others to come.

Between these two shores churns an ocean of Vallon originals, of which the title track further emphasizes Sartorius’s climatic tendencies. Here the melody from the composer’s fingers crystallizes like an icicle, but not before it traces a heart on a fogged train window. Though closed, that window allows a breath of current to make its briny notes known, a scent fecund with origins. Yet each time the trio switches tracks, it sets the tundra aflame with poetry.

Moret is a thrumming force, here and throughout, providing anchorage in “Immobile” and tactility to the soft-hued flames of “Cendre.” Elsewhere, he gives validity to every state, be it the protracted undulation of “Fade,” the bittersweet “Goodbye,” or even a clouded hint of “Rouge.” He also sets off evocative interactions between piano and cymbals, which in “Pixels” are light and glass.

Like grief, Vallon and his bandmates do not deny the immovable wedge of melancholy but grow larger to contain it. They are young in body but possess old souls, each with a space for the others in the name of living.

Tim Berne’s Snakeoil: Shadow Man (ECM 2339)

| Tyran Grillo

Shadow Man

Time Berne’s Snakeoil
Shadow Man

Tim Berne alto saxophone
Oscar Noriega clarinet, bass clarinet
Matt Mitchell piano
Ches Smith drums, vibraphone, percussion
Recorded January 2013 at Clubhouse, New York
Engineer: Joe Branciforte
Assistant: Bella Blasko
Mixed by David Torn at Cell Labs
Produced by David Torn and Tim Berne

In the world of Tim Berne’s Snakeoil, openness is the new closure. Having boomed into the ECM airspace with its self-titled debut, this band of powerhouse New Yorkers was ripe for a second coming. And in the throes of Shadow Man, it’s impossible to witness the musicians’ leaps of evolution and intuition and not be moved. We might easily throw around words like “cerebral” or “complex” to describe what’s going on here, but at the end of the way what really matters is its emotional impact, and this it possesses in spades. This is music that does more than speak to the listener; it embodies the listener.

With an average length of 12 minutes, and one track clocking in at just shy of 23, the album’s six tunes are more than that. They are living, breathing entities. The one outlier—or should I say inlier?—of the set is Paul Motian’s “Psalm,” which receives a heartfelt duo treatment from Berne and pianist Matt Mitchell. With such breadth of expression spilling from his alto (at points, one might swear it was a tenor), Berne is an ideal interpreter for this classic melody. The rest of the album is from his pen, thereby leaving us with far more dimensional puzzles to put together. Opening the occasion is “Son Of Not So Sure,” which begins in mid-utterance. The array of sounds elicited by drummer-percussionist Ches Smith is nothing to balk at. He is the creaking gate in the back yard, the window left open and the flies seeking refuge from the heat through it, the latch long untended and hanging by one last thread of the screw. Mitchell meanwhile sifts through the keys like memories and replaces them with fresh experiences. Only then does the bass clarinet of Oscar Noriega reveal its profile as Smith switches to vibraphone, calling forth some enchanting distortions. Through this, Berne and Mitchell join melodic hands in a collective reach toward the cooling stars. The stage is set.

Smith grabs more spotlight in the knottier “Static.” The mood is, of course, anything but. Noriega’s early solo on the lower reed founds Berne’s altoism, which in turn gets folded into Mitchell’s well-kneaded filo. Like some nocturne turned fierce, the tune moves with all the illusion of a Jacob’s Ladder toy—which is to say, in pursuit of the next idea with yet another already in mind—toward a strong-armed finish. Yet despite these moments of shine, the band is a well-oiled machine of which no cog is dispensable. Nowhere does this assertion hold more water than in the juggernaut “OC/DC.” A masterpiece for its length as much as for its strength, in swims through Berne’s meticulous tangle in a protracted degaussing of the proverbial screen. From the rubble of information before us, he builds a new icon, cell by cell, by which to double-click our acceptance. That the quartet dives into full-on, ecstatic control means less than it seems to say. Chaos is its mantra, because chaos fills in the gaps we are afraid to acknowledge. Mitchell on drums punches the spike, as it were, as Berne spits the sonic equivalent of an urban legend: so beguiling that it just might be true. Even when Noriega’s clarinet goes off by its lonesome for a bird’s eye view of what’s been left behind, it does this with a yearning to fall. This tune is so sharp, it can’t even handle itself without bleeding.

The 19-minute “Socket” is another evolutionary wonder. At any given moment of its passage, Berne speaks in two linear tongues, switching between them at will, while bass clarinet adds a third, internal register. Mitchell’s punctuations are liberal but on point, just as the others walk fault lines into coda. “Cornered (Duck)” tears off three minutes from the former’s duration like a chunk of taffy stretched between the two reedmen. With even greater attention to detail, the band plots its course here one angle at a time until sparkle becomes strangle.

It’s worth remarking on the album’s production, which puts Berne and David Torn at the mixing board—an unsurprising meeting of minds, given that the two appeared together on the legendary guitarist’s Prezens back in 2007. Here they have achieved the feeling of a live performance with all the lucidity of the studio. This was, in fact, Berne’s goal all along, and having seen Snakeoil perform some of these tunes live in Munich, I can attest to the validity of their capture.

There’s no such thing as the future of jazz. It’s already here.

(To hear samples of Shadow Man, click here.)

Billy Hart Quartet: One Is The Other (ECM 2335)

| Tyran Grillo

One Is The Other

Mark Turner tenor saxophone
Ethan Iverson piano
Ben Street double bass
Billy Hart drums
Recorded April/May 2013 at Avatar Studios, New York
Engineer: James A. Farber
Assistant: Bob Mallory
Produced by Manfred Eicher

It is like jigsaw pieces on a mission that tenorist Mark Turner, pianist Ethan Iverson, and bassist Ben Street have fallen into place around master drummer Billy Hart, with whom they return for a second ECM round. One Is The Other is therefore a manifold title for the achievements of this unique quartet. Not only does it imply something shared among the musicians, but also emphasizes the ways in which their individual voices interlock. With freshness of voices and depth of spirits, they ply an ancient trade of intergenerational communication. Teaching and learning occur in both directions. This sense of equality pervades every exchange.

BHQ

Turner contributes two tunes, including the flowering opener, “Lennie Groove,” in which so much of what happens is indicative of what follows. A geometric intro from Iverson gives way to the rhythm section’s smooth entrance and the composer’s own tenor arcing into focus. Solos are tasteful, keenly attentive to Hart’s timing and, above all, sincere—not a shade of pretension within earshot. The gorgeous “Sonnet for Stevie,” which reappears on Turner’s leader date, Lathe of Heaven, is even more intimate here than it is there. Anchored by soft two-part harmonies from Street and Hart’s glittering cymbals, pianist and reedman stay a course that cares little for arbitrary destinations. Iverson counters with a deuce of his own, of which “Big Trees” ends the album in style. The textural brilliance of Hart’s intro betrays little of the slippery groove that unfurls in its wake. Especially noteworthy are Turner and Iverson’s solo, which despite being their most abstract of the set are also their most grounded. Hart also blushes us into “Maraschino,” an endearing track made all the more so for its vulnerability. One can hear every process at work. This is no small feat.

Hart offers up a triangle of originals. Beginning with “Teule’s Redemption,” a groovier affair with turn-on-a-dime interaction between him and Turner, pushing on through the cymbal-splashed energies of “Amethyst,” and ending in the urban vibe of “Yard,” these tunes comprise a mini album in and of themselves and highlight the consummate skills of everyone involved. Top it all off with the cherry of “Some Enchanted Evening” (from the Rodgers and Hammerstein musical South Pacific), and you’ve got yourself quite the confection to savor.

People often talk of artists being in their “prime.” Hart, however, proves that it’s as much a matter of revealing as knowing yourself. Indeed, here is a peacock with plumage fully fanned and ready to play.

(To hear samples of One Is The Other, click here.)

Winstone/Gesing/Venier: Dance Without Answer (ECM 2333)

| Tyran Grillo

Dance Without Answer

Dance Without Answer

Norma Winstone voice
Klaus Gesing bass clarinet, soprano saxophone
Glauco Venier piano
Recorded December 2012, Auditorio Radiotelevisione svizzera, Lugano
Engineer: Stefano Amerio
Produced by Manfred Eicher

When a night black as coal
Placed a cloud in her soul.
Still she found the wings to fly
To the higher places…

When people compare something to a fine wine, they mean to say that its flavor deepens with age. But what of the color? It, too, changes, taking on new hues as light strikes the residuals of its enjoyment. This is more like what Winstone’s voice can do to her listener, who is but the glass to her vintage and through the prism of her words takes on something of their atmosphere. Indeed, here is an album that begs a fireplace, an upturned book, and shelter from a snowstorm.

Winstone has rarely sounded better than in the company of reedist Klaus Gesing and pianist Glauco Venier. On Dance Without Answer, she joins them for a third time on ECM. There has always been something therapeutic about Winstone’s music. It always seems to deal with coping, whether with joy or sadness, as expressed in the opening title track. The figure of Venier’s piano casts a long-drawn shadow like the body of Gesing’s clarinet. Their instrumental foundation bleeds through transitions from day to night, where truths and lies of love coexist as reminders of what might never be.

In spite of a thematic consistency, the moods of this trio are as varied as the linguistic colors of the titles. Winstone and her bandmates take the listener through the stark histrionics of “Cucurrucucu Paloma” (a portrait of abandonment) and the folkish “Gust Da Essi Viva” (filigreed by Gesing’s soprano) to the earthier “A Tor A Tor” (centered by a didgeridoo-like bass clarinet) and the evocative “Slow Fox” without lapsing into a single unnecessary detour. Yet Winstone shines brightest in the darkest places. In a wordless, raga-like style, she brings hope to “High Places” and follows what would seem to be the same female protagonist through the experiential dramas of “A Breath Away,” a remarkable lullaby that sets Winstone’s lyrics to a tune by Ralph Towner. And yet, while the poignant “It Might Be You” may seem to confirm its elusive presence—love in this album is an asymptote, so that even here she encounters the realization but not consummation of it.

Rounding out the set is a bouquet plucked from the popular canon. In Nick Drake’s “Time Of No Reply” Winstone mediates between realms of light and loneliness, while from Joe Raposo’s timeworn “Bein’ Green” she teases out visceral tenderness. Regardless of the words, she puts her all into each color change. But before Fred Neil’s “Everybody’s Talkin’” closes the album with a final survey of the palette, we also reckon with Madonna in the panoramic “Live To Tell” and Tom Waits in the bluesier “San Diego Serenade,” of which one line says it all: Never heard the melody ’til I needed the song. Prophetic words for those who never needed these songs until they heard the melodies, and a clue to the album’s name: the dance does have an answer, and it is the music itself.

(To hear samples of Dance Without Answer, click here.)

Ralph Alessi: Baida (ECM 2321)

| Tyran Grillo

Baida

Ralph Alessi
Baida

Ralph Alessi trumpet
Jason Moran piano
Drew Gress double-bass
Nasheet Waits drums
Recorded October 2012 at Avatar Studios, New York
Engineer: James A. Farber
Assistant: Charlie Kramsky
Produced by Manfred Eicher

Before making his ECM leader debut with Baida, trumpeter Ralph Alessi had only appeared once for the label on 1997’s underappreciated Circa, with pianist Michael Cain and saxophonist Peter Epstein. More importantly, he had already chiseled a fine reputation for himself on the New York jazz scene as an artist of limitless versatility. At last, those not privy to club appearances can experience his craft wherever exist the means to play an album. This all-Alessi program takes flight with pianist Jason Moran, bassist Drew Gress, and, in an ECM debut of his own, drummer Nasheet Waits all on board—only here we skip the safety announcement and go straight to the comfort of cruising altitude.

Baida Quartet

The title track opens the album with the rubato, unfastened introduction that has become a defining characteristic of so many ECM jazz sessions. Alessi and Waits walk the aisles with a sputtering yet precise sort of tracery before Gress and Moran sing of destinations not yet reached until the song’s reprise, muted upon landing, gives the all clear. Titles mark each leg of the journey with divergent associations. While “Baida” proudly fronts Alessi’s daughter’s word for “blanket,” “Maria Lydia” names the one woman who would have known his own babble: his mother, gone from this world shortly after the album’s completion. In such beautifully chromatic tunes as this, trumpet aficionados will hardly be able to deny an Enrico Rava influence at work. Neither in the swinging “Chuck Barris,” in which Alessi’s bold finesse, hiply relayed over rolling snare, pays further dues to the Italian master. Here is where the melodic turbulence really sets in as our craft reaches higher velocity speeds, especially in Moran’s solo, a flailing counterpart to Waits’s textured own.

As if to belabor the analogy, “In-Flight Entertainment” brings out the band’s most clean-shaven profile and puts Gress in the cockpit. Nearby selections are no less entertaining. The tongue-in-cheek “Gobble Goblins” opens with instrumental laughter from Alessi and Moran, both of whom flex their copiloting skills and, in the balladic “Sanity,” even go blindfolded for a spell. Other slow jams include “Throwing Like A Girl” and “I Go, You Go.” In these Alessi takes a nuanced approach, his every note rippling outward through the backing trio in alluring distortions. But it’s in the subtle under-bite of “Shank” and the rolling thunder of “11/1/10” that the crew puts it all together before making its final descent.

Alessi and his band never stray too far off course, flirtation just enough with danger to keep us on our toes while balancing maneuvers as would a skilled chef his flavors. Indeed, in an industry flooded with players who are all sugar, he is that rare combination of savory and sweet that encourages repeat business. Let’s hope that formula holds.

(To hear samples of Baida, click here.)

Charles Lloyd: Quartets (ECM 2316-20)

| Tyran Grillo

Charles Lloyd Quartets

Charles Lloyd
Quartets

Not only is saxophonist Charles Lloyd a gentle warrior; he is a fierce dancer. By “fierce” I mean not in the manner of a predator but of sunlight: which is to say, all the more life-giving for his quiet grace. With Lloyd, at the time of this writing, in his 77th year, the critics will tell you he has never sounded better. But the simple fact is: he never sounded worse, either, as attested by the refined levels of meditation achieved on the five albums collected for this essential Old & New Masters boxed set from ECM. Indeed, meditation is an unavoidable flower in the field of his biography, as he famously walked away from the stage in the early 1970s, only to return to the horn a decade later with formidable selflessness. This period also saw his association with producer Manfred Eicher take first flight. Listening to these albums as a set, however, one realizes that his comeback was not the most important celebration. His truest essence as a musician remained cupped like a pocket of air in a lotus in which was contained a universe of song. And so, to assert that Lloyd was at last going forward is to do his spirit a disservice. If anything, he was going inward.

Fish Out Of Water

Fish Out Of Water (ECM 1398)

Charles Lloyd tenor saxophone, flute
Bobo Stenson piano
Palle Danielsson bass
Jon Christensen drums
Recorded July 1989 at Rainbow Studio, Oslo
Engineer: Jan Erik Kongshaug
Produced by Manfred Eicher

As Thomas Conrad notes of Lloyd in his accompanying reflections, “With eight notes, he can put you in the presence of his immortal soul.” And from the opening breaths of this ECM debut, the truth of Conrad’s statement becomes crystal. Here Lloyd is joined by pianist Bobo Stenson, with whom he would forge a significant working relationship, and Keith Jarrett’s European rhythm section: bassist Palle Danielsson and drummer Jon Christensen. Lloyd’s signature tenor, smoky of flavor and viscous of texture, floats through Stenson’s smooth action at the keys in the nine-minute title cut, which opens a program of seven originals. The delicacy of these two melody makers is the album’s bread and butter, as intensely apparent between notes as in them. Stenson draws freshly honed memories from Lloyd’s comforts, while the reedman takes pause and feeds back into the loop with darker nuances. The unwrapping of lyrical presents continues under the Christmas tree of “Mirror,” throughout which brushed drums and a resonant bass provide a landscape of fulcrums on which Lloyd balances smooth hits and fluttering asides alike, only to diversify the climate with flute in the contemplative “Haghia Sophia.” Again, from this Stenson manages to emote so complementarily that we almost get lost in the swirling oceanic foam from which arises a tenored Aphrodite. “The Dirge” is another drop into a limpid pool of soul that is reason enough to ingest this album’s nourishing vibes.

Two grooves await us in “Bharati” and “Eyes Of Love.” The former is seek, refined, and oh so moving. Lloyd speaks mostly in half-whispers, never louder than a private declaration, while the latter unfolds some of his softest playing on record. A buoyant yet introspective solo from Danielsson trips us into the rejoinder, which keeps the cool, blue fires stoked well into the flute-driven “Tellaro.” Lloyd releases Stenson adrift as if a flower upon a river, swimming as a fish beneath him into a forest where we cannot follow.

Mythology would like paint Lloyd’s hiatus prior to this album as a period of soul searching, during which he is said to have nearly abandoned music, only to return refreshed and pouring his all into the art form that so defines him (if not the other way around). And yet we clearly see that in the recordings since his soul searching has never stopped, for it continues to inhabit every breath that passes his reed. Even when Lloyd isn’t playing, there always seems to be a thin line connecting every stretch of silence. In this respect, we find here a spiritual level of jazz from artists all the more prodigious for their humility. In spite of their incendiary potential, they choose to cook rather than flare, each bringing his sensitivity to bear upon these insightful forays into melody and surrender. Tender to the utmost.

<< Shankar: nobody told me (ECM 1397)
>> Meredith Monk: Book of Days (ECM 1399 NS)

… . …

Notes From Big Sur

Notes From Big Sur (ECM 1465)

Charles Lloyd tenor saxophone
Bobo Stenson piano
Anders Jormin bass
Ralph Peterson drums
Recorded November 1991 at Rainbow Studio, Oslo
Engineer: Jan Erik Kongshaug
Produced by Manfred Eicher

When listening to these albums in chronological order, one’s appreciation for Lloyd’s notecraft can only increase. On Notes From Big Sur he finds himself in fine company: Bobo Stenson remains at the keys, but this time bassist Anders Jormin and drummer Ralph Peterson (in his only ECM appearance) take up a coveted rhythmic role. The feeling of afterlife offered in the opener, “Requiem,” is immeasurable. Arcing into a gorgeous cradle of sound, set off by Lloyd’s unerring climb into tuneful bliss, this is one of his most profound statements on record. Smooth-as-caramel pianism widens the doors into a vista of reflection, even as Lloyd pins a tail to this comet with a ribbon of his own. Were the band to stop here, the album would already be a masterpiece.

Gratefully they press on into the more free-flowing “Sister,” in which Lloyd takes occasional punctuations in the backing as prompts for chromatic essays. Stenson has his moments in the sun, as in his spiky solo for “Monk In Paris,” cascading runs in “Takur,” and buoyant commentary of “Sam Song.” Lloyd’s pointillism comes to the fore in the latter for a formidable rendering. Jormin, too, makes a notable statement here. “When Miss Jessye Sings” (dedicated, one imagines, to Norman) is another achingly soulful track, with enough dynamics to spread over the entire album’s surface and then some. The glue that binds comes in “Pilgrimage To The Mountain.” This two-part prayer draws us into the session’s core intentions. Peterson has just the right touch in both. He traces that same mountain with footprints, leaving Lloyd to paint a sunset, and us to reckon with the secrets of its pyramidal shadow.

<< David Darling: Cello (ECM 1464)
>> Krakatau: Volition (ECM 1466)

… . …

The Call

The Call (ECM 1522; also included as part of ECM’s Touchstones series)

Charles Lloyd tenor saxophone
Bobo Stenson piano
Anders Jormin bass
Billy Hart drums
Recorded July 1993 at Rainbow Studio, Oslo
Engineer: Jan Erik Kongshaug
Produced by Manfred Eicher

With The Call, Lloyd hit his ECM stride. Having pianist Bobo Stenson, bassist Anders Jormin, and drummer Billy Hart didn’t hurt. “It’s a full-service orchestra of love,” Lloyd once said in reference to this lineup. I decline to come up with a more fitting slogan, for the tender ode of “Nocturne” that opens this set of nine originals is bursting with it—that love which bears the weight of dreams on its shoulders and sews itself into the quilt of history. Stenson rings true, here and throughout, blending us into “Song” with a mélange of pointillism and legato undercurrents as Jormin’s buoyant solo carries us deeper into this moonlit cave. That Lloyd only joins in three quarters of the way through a nearly 13-minute odyssey reveals but one facet of his humility. His expression uncurls like the fist of a pacifist in “Dwija” while holding in its relief the possibility of defense. “Glimpse” has its own story to tell, painting a lakeside soiree under hanging lights, each wrapped in fragile paper and lending purpose to a slow dance one wishes might never end. Such bittersweet softness is the album’s emotional eigentone, fashioning a double-edged sword between the urgency of “Imke” and the blissful “Amarma,” the thoughtfulness of which shows Lloyd at his barest. Our leader is also irresistible in the celebratory “Figure In Blue, Memories Of Duke” (note also Stenson’s complementary touches) and the audio kiss of “The Blessing,” but saves the best for last with “Brother On The Rooftop,” an ululating duet with drums that might very well have planted the seed for his duo album with Billy Higgins, Which Way is East.

Lloyd knows not only how to tell a story, as any great jazz musician should, but also binds it in soft leather and tools it into a one-of-a-kind symmetry. He needn’t even inscribe it, for his spirit is in the details. Never one afraid to think out loud, he lets us in on everything.

<< Demenga/Demenga: 12 Hommages A Paul Sacher (ECM 1520/21 NS)
>> Federico Mompou: Música Callada (ECM 1523 NS)

… . …

All My Relations

All My Relations (ECM 1557)
Charles Lloyd saxophone, flute, chinese oboe
Bobo Stenson piano
Anders Jormin double-bass
Billy Hart drums
Recorded July 1994 at Rainbow Studio, Oslo
Engineer: Jan Erik Kongshaug
Produced by Manfred Eicher

Lloyd was positively soaring by the 1990s, during which time ECM’s microphones were there to catch every glorious note before it disappeared beyond the clodus. The Coltrane comparisons so often made in regard to his playing are more than justified on this especially bright, sometimes boppish, session, which like its cover speaks in bold contrasts of red, white, and gray. Lloyd blasts his colorful invention in cuts like “Piercing The Veil,” “Evanstide, Where Lotus Bloom,” and the anthemic title track with the conviction of a prophet, finding himself bonded along the way by superb kinship. Jormin always manages to find room where there seems to be none, painting his lines as he does into an intimate canvas, as if by the tip of Dali’s moustache, thereby rendering the darkened waters into which Lloyd prefers to deploy his vessels. Stenson is equally present. His gorgeous spate of calypso magic in “Thelonious Theonlyus” and luscious soloing in “Cape To Cairo Suite (Hommage To Mandela)” are the water to Lloyd’s arid valley. In both Lloyd shoulders stories of unerring ingenuity, stringing chants of hope on their way toward rapture. This leaves only Hart, who brings a ceremonial edge to the proceedings. In those two tracks for which Lloyd swaps his brass for flute (“Little Peace”) and Chinese oboe (“Milarepa”), Hart flickers, a tranquil flame of justice, spreading decks of cards to reveal an unpretentious flush, luring shadows and breathing energy into a gunmetal sky. So does this quartet begin on earth and end in heaven.

Even more powerful than the execution is the content: themes and interpretations spun from a well-pollinated mind. And so, it is Lloyd to whom we return. He catches every tiger by the tail, playing with a willingness to look beyond his licks and into the sun that grows them. From the way his sound circles the center, one can feel his horn swaying, loving, speaking. All My Relations is a celebration not only of roots, but also of the branches and leaves that would be nothing without them. This is what mastery feels like.

<< Michael Mantler: Cerco Un Paese Innocente (ECM 1556)
>> Jack DeJohnette: Dancing With Nature Spirits (ECM 1558)

… . …

Canto

Canto (ECM 1635)
Charles Lloyd tenor saxophone, Tibetan Oboe
Bobo Stenson piano
Anders Jormin double-bass
Billy Hart drums
Recorded December 1996 at Rainbow Studio, Oslo
Engineer: Jan Erik Kongshaug
Produced by Manfred Eicher

A picture may be worth a thousand words, but the cover photo of Charles Lloyd’s Canto shows a man who takes comfort in one: solitude. In that lingering, outward gaze into the light we see the immensity of his art more clearly than any number of words might ever hope to achieve. Which makes all the more incredible his acclimation to the talents of Stenson, Jormin, Billy Hart, with whom he again shares a bond (and a studio) for his fifth ECM outing. As if any proof were needed, Lloyd confirms that he has yet to fully chart the shadows cast some seven years earlier on Fish Out Of Water. If we have Eicher to thank for rescuing his music from the obscure corner into which it had been so carelessly painted by the media, we must also acknowledge the many inspirations that make their way into this book of seven chapters.

We might as well expand the title of the opening “Tales of Rumi” to “Tales of Rumination,” for such is the nature of the ancient Sufi mystic’s presence as Stenson tickles the piano’s oft-neglected lungs. A needle of thought appears and recedes, pinholing the night’s canvas with stars, each a camera obscura of time. As the trio steps into the foreground, giving blossom to this fragrance, Lloyd filters the spotlight with his rusted tenor, peaking above clouds of golden tenure. He would sooner slow down this train than ride it to the last station, content as he is to linger in patient refraction. We hear this also in the chromatic disc that tiddlywinks us into “How Can I Tell You.” He rolls and bakes this and every theme into a perfectly layered filo, never afraid to favor certain notes over others. It is his way of defining a center from which all other centers grow. Each is of equal weight. If anything, the balance of fadeout and all-out burn in “Desolation Sound” emboldens us to accept that weight as if it were our own. A Satie-like descriptiveness welcomes us into the title track. Built of air and memory, it features the rhythm section’s most attuned work of the set and epitomizes the tender robustness at which Lloyd is so adept. “Nachiketa’s Lament” draws its name from a tale in the Upanishads and the selfsame boy who frees himself from saṃsāra in his rejection of material things. Lloyd finds solace for this retelling in the Tibetan oboe, in combination with drums, for a portrait of fruitless plains and empty bodies. Jormin and Stenson reveal their signatures only as the sun sets into the hills of “M,” of which the mineral-rich bass provides a solid perch for the tenorist’s heavy wing beats. Hart shakes off his fair share of stardust in a solo to remember before the grand sweep of “Durga Durga” disturbs the mandala in the immediate wake of its completion.

Listening to Lloyd, especially as part of the quartet with which this set ends, is a multisensory experience. By the filament of his restraint he spins earth-shattering hymns. Opting always for a restorative edge, Lloyd finishes his tunes like someone who never wants to. He practices what he preaches and passes through criticism like a ghost through walls.

“Do not look at my outward form, but take what is in my hand.”
–Rumi

<< Bjørnstad/Darling/Rypdal/Christensen: The Sea II (ECM 1633)
>> Tomasz Stanko Septet: Litania (ECM 1636)