Piano Improvisation

Keith Jarrett: Roma (ECM 2880)

| Tyran Grillo

Keith Jarrett
Roma

Keith Jarrett piano
Recorded live July 12, 2016
at Sala Santa Cecilia,
Auditorium Parco della Musica, Roma
Producer: Keith Jarrett
Engineer: Martin Pearson
Design: Sascha Kleis
Executive producer: Manfred Eicher
Release date: November 6, 2026

Keith Jarrett’s Roma fills the last space in ECM’s portrait of his final European solo tour. Recorded at Rome’s Santa Cecilia Hall on July 12, 2016, it joins the Budapest, Bordeaux, Vienna, and Munich concerts in documenting five evenings across thirteen days. Within that brief span, the pianist found enough room to remake his relationship with the keyboard at every stop. Here, dense chromatic lines give melody something to push against, each emerging theme revealing an opening that could scarcely have been imagined a moment before. Listening, we feel our way along with him.

“Part I” brings its fragmentary existence into frame with the force of a seemingly impossible proof. Working through various equations in real time, Jarrett seeks a single number the notes can agree on, challenging himself in the process of becoming. The feeling is gnarled, even uncomfortable, yet the free atonality remains heartfelt. Its tensions carry the awkward sincerity of a body attempting to describe itself from inside its own bloodstream. As complexities mount and detours clamor for equal value, ten fingers become exponential explorers, now a hundred, now ten thousand, until the arithmetic threatens to consume the hands that set it moving. Consensus eventually reveals itself, though by then its beauty has become suspect. We have grown accustomed to the chaos, discovered a pulse within its abrasions. Resolution arrives bearing an almost indecent neatness, a signature affixed to something whose identity was richest while it remained illegible.

The growling bass line grounding “Part II” gives the left hand a shadow to inhabit while the right answers with brighter dance moves. Their balance is astonishing, maintained even as complex polyrhythms slowly entangle them. Independence becomes a means of intimacy, distinct intentions occupying the same nervous system. A more estranged conversation awaits in the deconstructed elegy of “Part III,” where the left hand plods forward and the right seems to play its theme backward. Time folds at their meeting point, permitting the briefest harmonious union. Within the sparser architecture of “Part IV,” this divided consciousness contracts. Its stop-and-start modality speaks with the hesitancy of someone remembering a room that has been removed from the house. The gaps preserve its dimensions, giving absence a floor beneath its feet.

That absence allows the sunlight of nostalgia to enter the gospel of “Part V,” carrying its song as a wound after war. Uplift remains ephemeral, a light in the window lit for one necessary moment and extinguished before it can become an object of worship. Such tenderness knows what prolonged exposure might demand of a fragile thing. From this small illumination, the heavenly cast of “Part VI” rises with epic, cinematic sensibilities. Expansive arpeggios supply their own means of ascent; the music seems to be flight itself, inventing altitude from the pressure of a fingertip. Gravity becomes a proposition the body can entertain without accepting, its argument suspended somewhere beneath our hearing.

A balladic return to earth gives “Part VII” its emotional reach. Jarrett speaks tenderly, without a shred of self-interest, gathering flowers for the yearning listener from a field whose acreage changes with every breath. The bouquet is delicate enough to preserve the distance between its stems. When “Part VIII” gathers that earthbound feeling into a skyward trajectory, its acuity of observation becomes almost unbearable. Jarrett is an observer of places that must be articulated in the moment of witnessing them, before their veracity is ruined by the artifice of recall. These central improvisations may form one of the most magnificent stretches in his archive. Their comforts retain the gravity of the thicker psychospiritual territory he has worked through to reach them. Even the most open melody carries that buried resistance, an underground correspondence whose pages have become translucent.

The blues of “Part IX” grants Jarrett license to let his voice out freely. His exuberance has a rough grain, and the tight entanglements of the left hand keep the romp tethered to the concert’s deeper concerns. Joy acquires traction through the very knots that might have impeded it. Where this earthy momentum presses against the keyboard, “Part X” loosens the instrument into a cascading wonder. Its sparkling highs and subterranean lows exchange density until the piano seems capable of evaporating through its own roots. Those roots rumble with a need to be heard.

The restraint of “Over the Rainbow” gathers these vibrations into a melody heard anew. Jarrett’s clever harmonies deepen its vulnerability, and what he holds back becomes an active presence, protecting the song so that its purpose might not be bruised. “It’s a Lonesome Old Town” extends that care, keeping its tongue behind a glass cage to protect the implied lyrics. The cage is strangely permeable, reaching us without claiming to know what we have lost. Both encores appeared in Munich 2016, yet here their poignancy feels concentrated beyond the scale of ordinary memory. The world has been distilled into a thimble and administered drop by drop to the tongue of time. What receives this medicine seems older than the mouth, an ache that preceded its own capacity for expression.

Something darker courses through this recording, its courting of shadow lending the passages of glory the urgency of a reprieve. The piano is palpably present, its own resonance meeting that of the hall until the room seems to acquire a second ribcage. The exchange suggests a strange form of labor by building a dwelling for something we could never possess. Every note has the capacity to annex silence, yet these hands repeatedly leave a portion unclaimed. The music’s deepest generosity may reside there, in making room for an existence that owes us nothing.

Jon Balke: Skrifum (ECM 2839)

| Tyran Grillo

Jon Balke
Skrifum

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.

Keith Jarrett: New Vienna (ECM 2850)

| Tyran Grillo

Keith Jarret
New Vienna

Keith Jarrett piano
Recorded live July 9, 2016
Goldener Saal, Musikverein, Vienna
Producer: Keith Jarrett
Engineer: Martin Pearson
Mastering: Christoph Stickel
Cover design: Sascha Kleis
Executive producer: Manfred Eicher
Release date: May 30, 2025

Today marks the 80th birthday of Keith Jarrett, one of the most uncompromising visionaries of modern music. Although he is unlikely to be heard from again in a live setting, we can rejoice that ECM still has recordings in its vault waiting to be released. Among them is New Vienna, the label’s fourth document from the pianist’s final European solo tour (the previous recordings being Munich 2016, Budapest Concert, and Bordeaux Concert). The title of the present disc is a nod to his seminal Vienna Concert, recorded 25 years earlier, almost to the day.

Part I jumps into the bramble of our expectations and slinks through the sticks and foliage with the litheness of a mountain lion. The music evolves in a convoluted dance, moving ever forward to its sudden cessation. In light of such focused energy, it’s only fitting that the shadows of Part II should cast their pall over the scene at hand. Rather than tell a story, each resonant chord lingers long enough for us to come up with our own, so that by the end of this meditative slip, we are closer neither to the destination nor the point of departure. The applause between this and Part III is especially jarring, even as it prepares us for the latter’s spell-breaking properties. Every stomp of its feet is a declaration of the shorter forms that Jarrett came to favor in his latter-day performances. Part IV is an anthem for the soul, drawing a dangling hand through the waters of reflection on its way to the opposite shore. A brief shift into dissonance in the final leg is the only tinge of regret we encounter.

The balladic Part V represents a sea change in the program, channeling feelings so familiar that we must close our eyes to contain them. Every new layer reveals an older memory—this one of a hermetic childhood, that one of an unbridled young adulthood, and yet another of generations interconnected by love—leaving behind a gift unwrappable by time and space. The rise and fall of Jarrett’s left hand mimics the trepidations of an anxious heart that finds truest release at the keyboard alone. The hall recedes, the audience fades, and the lights dim until there is only vibration existing for no other sake than its own.

Part VI is the aftermath of an argument. An unnamed protagonist picks up the physical and immaterial pieces of what has just transpired in the hopes of refashioning them into a semblance of unity. But no matter how much he tries, the cracks are always visible. Part VII evokes the mourning of self that follows, creating hope from scratch before the clouds have a chance to weep. The increasingly dense textures come across as simultaneously desperate and liberated, while Part VIII cleans the proverbial slate with a brief yet cathartic blues. The gospel-infused Part IX is a return to form, giving joy to everything it touches. This glorious turnaround shows us that hope is a many-pronged path. And of all the places it might take us, “Somewhere Over The Rainbow” couldn’t be more suitable. Its timelessness is the frame of a building that continues standing even when the mortar crumbles away. And as the winds blow through its open walls, they seem to whisper, “In a life filled with so much wonder, melodies are the only language that matters.”

Fred Hersch: Silent, Listening (ECM 2799)

| Tyran Grillo

Fred Hersch
Silent, Listening

Fred Hersch piano
Recorded May 2023 at Auditorio Stelio Molo RSI, Lugano
Engineer: Stefano Amerio
Cover: Andreas Kocks
Produced by Manfred Eicher
Release date: April 19, 2024

“I don’t use ideas. Every time I have an idea, it’s too limiting and usually turns out to be a disappointment. But I haven’t run out of curiosity.”
—Robert Rauschenberg

After making his ECM debut with trumpeter Enrico Rava on 2022’s The Song Is You, pianist Fred Hersch releases his first solo album for the label. Pleased with the feel of recording at Lugano’s Auditorio Stelio Molo RSI and the piano on which he played that spontaneous session, he felt committed to the idea of returning to the same space and instrument. In the album’s EPK, Hersch speaks of the title as connoting not listening silently but rather a mode of patience from which music grows of its own accord, as is immediately palpable in “Star-Crossed Lovers.” Through the keyhole of this Billy Strayhorn/Duke Ellington classic, we glimpse a realm only articulable in notecraft such as this. Hersch’s sense of touch is profoundly ahead of so many other players, his feeling for melodic form (not just prettiness for the sake of it) giving flesh to every bone.

After such a suspension, the abstractions of “Night Tide Light” set the stage for a swath of freely improvised and original music. They break the spell without ever removing its base components, distilling them into a new tincture for creative souls. Upon drinking it, the mystical aura of “Akrasia” pulls away the proverbial veil to reveal a not-so-proverbial landscape populated by memories knowable only to the listener. As starlight weaves through dampened strings, we are shown new constellations in our image. As the story goes, Hersch brought his sheet music for this original composition, which he realized was on the floor after the recording started, so he just played the beginning and went from there. “Aeon” is one of a few titles taken from the oeuvre of painter Robert Rauschenberg and speaks more to the transcendence at play here. “Volon” is another, working dissonance into a grammar all its own.

The title track is pure transcendence. Improvised without preparation, its feeling is never stable. It wavers between weightless highs and gravid lows—the very qualities of life itself. “Starlight” is perhaps the most descriptive title for the album. It flirts with Debussy’s Clair de Lune before veering off along its own paths, always keeping a toe in the former’s shadow. Distant fires, whispering of a destructive power that looks beautiful from afar, burn quietly. “Little Song,” originally written for the duo project with Rava, receives its premiere here. It’s a tune that bends itself in three dimensions to the listener’s ear, needing nothing but its heartbeat as accompaniment.

“The Wind” (Russ Freeman) is a first take that flows as if it were the tenth. There is something nostalgic about its contours, a certain magic of the past that permeates so many of ECM’s past solo piano gems, including Keith Jarrett’s The Melody At Night, With You and Paul Bley’s Solo in Mondsee. Similarly, this must be heard from beginning to end to be appreciated fully. Hersch lets the sounds go wherever they must, never forcing the keys where they will not bend. It ends with a rustling of leaves, a stirring of the soul, and a baptism of moonlight. The standard “Softly, As In A Morning Sunrise” is a nod to Hersch’s self-professed hero, Sonny Rollins, whereas “Winter Of My Discontent” is an inspiration to itself. Like James Joyce at his most accessible, this is modernism given a fine mesh through which to steep its tea. Thus, the predetermined is not a seed but a base layer for something humane to be built on top. The taller it gets, the more it reacts to the wind, never toppling but gracing the clouds with its teetering metronome.

Pascale Berthelot: Saison Sècrete (RJAL 397037)

| Tyran Grillo

Pascale Berthelot
Saison Secrète

Pascale Berthelot piano
Recorded November 29, 2018
Studios La Buissonne, Pernes-les-Fontaines
Engineer: Gérard de Haro
Mastered by Nicolas Baillard at La Buissonne Mastering Studio
Steinway grand piano prepared and tuned by Alain Massonneau
Release date: October 26, 2020

Pianist Pascale Berthelot, a remarkable interpreter of (and favorite among) living composers, becomes one herself—in a sense—throughout this program of five extended improvisations. Liberated at the behest of Gérard de Haro, engineer and head of Studios La Buissonne in France, these unabashedly visual evocations of in-the-moment imaginings constitute one of the most multidimensional piano recordings I’ve heard in years. While its impressionism lays its head as much on the shoulder of Poulenc as Jarrett, it shapes itself one body part at a time without the ultimate need for such comparative garments. Regardless of the lines of reckoning we might connect from Earth to its distant galaxy, it validates the listener’s imagination, and in that spirit I offer mine in return.

“Balance des étoiles” opens the curtains as if in expectation of morning but instead finds the moon masquerading as the sun, rising in mimicry of dawn. The toes become restless for the feel of soil between them, the heart for a lamp to light the way. What began as a reverie ends as a descent into ocean, where prose and poetry comingle until the difference is impossible to make out. In “Ciel s’illune,” the sky and earth are flipped, so that another distinction—that between inhalation and exhalation—is rendered mythological. When we at last get to the center of this genetic spiral, “Nuits, chères” abandons the lie of tranquility for the truth of its unsettling, thus evoking the bliss and deeper love that a relationship conflict can yield. Even in “Chambre sans langage,” in which the intonations of dampened piano strings resound like a knock at the door, spiritual tendencies move beyond prayer into communion. And so, when the dream of “Clair éclat de l’M” lights a ponderous candle with its tongue, it adds one last link to the chain we’ve been extending all along, dragging behind us a memory box whose contents we have already forgotten.

And yet, we mustn’t fool ourselves into thinking that the world Berthelot describes existed before these utterances. Rather, we experience it as she does, unfolding in real time at the touch of flesh and key until something inevitable arises. Thus, the recording itself is a song made up by a child lost in the woods, holding on to lullabies as the only answers to her questions of fear and emerging all the stronger for it.