It’s emphatically a reflection not of their musical quality but of how busy I’ve been recently that I’m only now writing to pass on my enthusiasm for three rather wonderful albums released by ECM in January and early February. I’ve been listening to each of them a lot, but due to work I was so focused on things cinematic that writing a musical blog was out of the question. That said, these recent releases are still available, of course, and still wonderful.
First up in January was Touch of Time, by Norwegian trumpeter Arve Henriksen and Dutch pianist Harmen Fraanje. I’ve been following Henriksen’s career since being introduced to his music almost 20 years ago by my late friend, the jazz composer and bandleader Graham Collier; Henriksen, apart from being a fine composer himself (not to mention a remarkable singer at both ends of the scale), has one of the most distinctive and memorably lyrical trumpet sounds around. That fluid, full-bodied, perhaps unique sonority – remember how you may have felt when you first heard Miles? – is immediately in evidence in his lovely collaboration with Fraanje, which consists of ten mostly brief miniatures, gently contemplative but enormously expressive. The majority are credited to both musicians, though the mood throughout is so delicate and evocative of the moment that many give the impression of having been improvised rather than composed. Whatever, this is music of unassertive but true beauty; the opening track Melancholia sets the tone, followed by The Beauty of Sundays. Even when, as on Mirror Images, the trumpet and piano are accompanied by Henriksen’s electronics, there is something so engagingly intimate at play that you almost feel as if you could be in the same room as the musicians as they explore various possibilities. Despite their having first met as recently as 2019, it’s clear there is a highly fruitful creative chemistry between the pair. Moreover, Manfred Eicher’s characteristically sensitive, transparent production enhances the immediacy of atmosphere quite superbly.
Next, at the beginning of February, came Compassion, the second of pianist Vijay Iyer’s trio albums with bassist Linda May Han Oh and percussionist extraordinaire Tyshawn Sorey. These names may be familiar to regular readers: I loved the trio’s 2021 debut album Uneasy, and was hugely impressed by their performance the following year at the London Jazz Festival. Compassion in no way disappoints; on the contrary, it confirms the seemingly effortless virtuosity of each individual while demonstrating their astonishingly empathetic interplay. Iyer’s compositions are pleasingly varied, subtle yet accessible in what has become a fairly recognisable style, but he’s also happy to complement them with compositions by others, including Stevie Wonder’s Overjoyed (by way of Chick Corea) and Roscoe Mitchell’s Nonaah. The mood in the opening title track and in Prelude: Orison may be meditative, restrained and lyrical, but much of the album, for all its rhythmic sophistication, really swings, sometimes funkily and furiously as in the aptly titled Maelstrom and Tempest. It all comes to a glorious dancing end with the late Geri Allen’s Drummer’s Song, leaving me, at least, exhilarated by the unflashy yet consistently marvellous musicianship throughout.
Finally, mid-February brought Words Unspoken, a quartet album led by the great John Surman, as usual performing on soprano and baritone saxophones and bass clarinet, and accompanied by the unusual assembly of guitar (Rob Luft), vibraphone (Rob Waring) and drums (Thomas Strønen). Accompanied is perhaps not the correct word, as this is undoubtedly a recording of excellent equals, all performing with expertise and imagination. Still, for me at any rate, Surman, as the leader and composer, was the prime attraction – I’ve been a fan since he featured as soloist with the Mike Westbrook Orchestra on Citadel/Room 315 (which I bought nearly 50 years ago!) – and as he approaches his 80th birthday later this year, he sounds as unquestionably terrific as ever. The instrumentation and band members may be new, the album may sound wondrously fresh, but it’s still the same Surman, steeped in English music, jazz, folk, hymns, and much, much more; the sheer energy, invention, control of colour, tone, pace and dynamics, not to mention the fundamental modesty regarding his relationship with the other players, feel timeless. You can hear what I mean on the opening Pebble Dance (in which Surman’s soprano appears only some time after his colleagues) and the magnificent title track (where his beautifully breathy baritone leads the mysterious way). He’s been doing this stuff for decades, and it’s still magic.
The photograph of Vijay Iyer at the top is by Bart Babinski, courtesy ECM.
notes and observations by Geoff Andrew 