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.
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.
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 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 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 Riffand 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 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 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.
Jon Balke piano, Spektrafon Recorded November 2023 The Village Recording, Copenhagen Engineer: Thomas Vang Mixed by Sven Andréen and Job Balke at Klokkereint Studios in Gjøvik Cover: Jan Groth, Sign I (1973-74) Produced by Manfred Eicher and Jon Balke Release date: February 28, 2025
Although billed as the latest solo recording from pianist Jon Balke, the instrument here doubles as its own accompanist by virtue of the “Spektrafon.” Created by Balke in collaboration with music technology professor Anders Tveit at the Norwegian Academy of Music, this new tool captures ambient sounds in real time as the performer draws out chords of harmonic material via a tablet interface. “In a way,” Balke notes, “the player enters into a dialogue with a live active reverberation to the piano sound – a dialogue with oneself.” The result is his most meditative offering to date.
On Skrifum (“handwriting” in Icelandic), what we encounter is a series of mostly monophonic miniatures that frees his other hand to manipulate the effect of his keystrokes accordingly. Thus, Balke writes the music into being with that most ancient of gestural impulses to leave a record of one’s existence, only instead of cave walls and pyramids, he chooses the multiverse as his canvas. Pulling on the thread of Warp (2016) and Discourses (2020), both electro-acoustic explorations of the keyboard, he continues to unravel new metaphysical possibilities from wood, felt, and string.
“Calligraphic” and “Tegaki” (another word for handwriting, this from the Japanese) reiterate the theme as much in name as in execution, tapping the shadows cast by the primitive utterances we make. But it is in “Traces” where we are welcomed into the inner sanctum of the Spektrafon, which speaks as if it were only being spoken to. It is not an echo chamber but echo incarnate, self-sustaining and sentient. As the ink moves into “Lines” and “Streaks,” origins reveal themselves more clearly, emerging as afterglows of implied chords. If the piano is the soil, these are the crops it yields in digital harvest. All of which reminds us that contemplative gestures always leave their remnants, each with a life of its own. Such are the often-unrendered impulses of performance.
“Sparks” and “Strand” communicate in sporadic bursts, breaching realms out of which we are normally locked. From the finger-dampened strings of “Rifts” and the unsettled foundations of the title track to the almost-forbidden secrets of “Stripes,” there are more than enough articulations to spin a narrative that feels like our own. When Balke plays with two hands (as in “Ductus” and “Kitabat”), memories we never experienced start to become normal.
We often talk about improvisation coming from the ether. Skrifum makes that notion duly real. The pianism itself is of the past, as if played by the most conscientious children in an attic with no audience but themselves. Their explorations give way to unbridled dreams that manifest in the waking world, extending their tendrils to whoever will grab them.
Signum Quartett Florian Donderer violin Annette Walther violin Xandi van Dijk viola Thomas Schmitz violoncello Recorded March 2022, Sendesaal Bremen Engineer: Christoph Franke Design: Sascha Kleis An ECM Production Release date: July 18, 2025
A Dark Flaring marks the second ECM New Series appearance of the Signum Quartett, following their renditions of Erkki-Sven Tüür’s chamber music on 2020’s Lost Prayers. With an even more evocative title through which to guide our listening, they present a singular program of selections from South Africa. In her liner notes, journalist and music critic Shirley Apthorp sets the stage for us most vividly:
“In both Xhosa and Zulu tradition, a healthy relationship with your ancestors is a prerequisite for wellbeing in the present; modern psychology is still catching up with much of what older cultures have known for centuries. While it remains a challenge to find a common thread between South Africa’s many and diverse cultures, this awareness could be said to knit together both the rainbow nation’s populace and the works on this recording.”
And in Komeng (2002), by Mokale Koapeng (b. 1963), we begin to understand just how wide the gap between mind and body can be. The piece takes its inspiration from “Umyeyezelo,” a celebratory song by Thembu musician Nofinishi Dywili (1928-2002). Dywili was a master of the uhadi, a single-stringed bow played with a stick akin to the Brazilian berimbau (an effect replicated here con legno). The song’s title means “ululation” and refers to a Xhosa coming-of-age ritual, the circular nature of which is organically expressed in the music’s structure. A play of sunlight on a child’s face, a swaying reed, a tree standing tall on the horizon: images of past and future comingle in the present, rendering such divisions of time meaningful beyond measure (to say they do away with them would be to undermine the music’s committed sense of time). A rocking motion in the cello, fragile pizzicato, and other liminal gestures from the higher strings add vital details.
Next is (rage) rage against the (2018) by Matthijs van Dijk (b. 1983), which begins innocently enough before imploding. It is directly connected to loss (the composer having lost his mother when he was 18) and personal trauma, paying homage to both the Dylan Thomas poem “Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night” and the band Rage Against the Machine. Toeing the line between fury and dark resignation, it exploits the limits of the string quartet’s capacity for depth and breadth. Stomping feet add necessary punctuation. The piercing sirens of its final act are thrilling, like a rock song being fed through the meat grinder of Penderecki’s Threnody for the Victims of Hiroshima until the bleeding slows to a trickle. A subliminal drone woven into the ending gives hope of a life beyond the chaos.
From the newest to one of the oldest of the program, we switch to the Five Elegies for String Quartet (1940-41) of Arnold van Wyk (1916-1983), who, in the late 1930s, became the first South African composer to study at the Royal Academy of Music in London. He also knew loss, having suffered the death of his mother and oldest sister by age 17. Despite being his first compositions for string quartet, these elegies immediately evoke Shostakovich in their fiercely shaded lyricism and were among a handful of early works that earned him great renown in his day. The balance of fluidity and razor-sharp insight is immediately apparent in his examination of war. The lively second movement, marked Allegro feroce, grabs the hem of joy but never manages to defrock the dark zeitgeist that flaunts it. The central Adagio is the mournful heart of it all, a forlorn viola solo against a backdrop of aftereffect: bomb smoke, fire ash, and tear stains. Only toward the end does the cello answer the call as if from the grave. And in the final movement, we encounter the most lyrical motifs, which build into a Beethovenian drama before ending in a near whisper.
Péter Louis van Dijk (b. 1953) is the father of Xandi van Dijk, violist of the Signum Quartett. His iinyembezi (2000) draws from John Dowland’s “Flow My Tears” (1596), as indicated by the Xhosa title (meaning “tears”), refracting the theme until it becomes a chain of half-starts and unrequited remorse. At one point, pizzicato playing evokes the mbira (African thumb piano), and the musicians even tap their instruments in kind. Over the course of 16 and a half minutes, it traverses continents’ worth of terrain, giving itself over to jubilation but always falling back into a bed of tentative truth claims. Despite the expressive depth at hand, it draws an ever-tighter circle of influence around itself until, like an ouroboros, it must stop just shy of self-extinction.
Robert Fokkens (b. 1975), who also studied at the Royal Academy of Music and has lived in the UK ever since, gives us Glimpses of a half-forgotten future (2012). An elegy to deaths in his own life, it too evokes the uhadi but bears further imprints of Cage, Feldman, Bach, and the French spectralists. Spaced out in three movements, the second of which leaps as if in an attempt to escape the clutches of grief, it finishes with microtonal contemplation, seemingly at odds with its surroundings.
The finale is an astonishing discovery in the form of the Quartet for Strings (1939) by Priaulx Rainier (1903-1986), another Royal Academy of Music graduate who studied with Nadia Boulanger, among others. Inspired by the music she grew up with in Zululand, she stayed on at the Academy as a professor of composition. Being a relatively early work, the Quartet for Strings eschews some of the technical challenges that would beset much of her later pieces, but it’s no less challenging for its emotional demands. Its opening movement, for one, teeters between lyricism and skepticism—or, if you will, between looking us straight in the eye and askance—while the trembling second movement dances at the edges of a fading memory. The third movement, marked Andante tranquillo, makes artful use of pizzicato cello and moves in flowing chords attached at the hip. Finally, a spirited Presto chews hard until it reaches bone in the viola. Sliding strings share the air with muted harmonics, a textural quality that makes me wonder whether she didn’t make an impression on composers like Boucourechliev later on.
If A Dark Flaring has a soul partner there in the universe, it is the Kronos Quartet’s seminal Pieces of Africa from 1992. If you admire that album as much as I do, then you’ll find plenty to savor in this one as well. Although born of a different stripe and spirit, it holds equally deep roots in its hands and refuses to let go of them from start to finish.
Between Sound and Space: ECM Records and Beyond 