New York Music Daily

Global Music With a New York Edge

Rumbling in Brooklyn with Josh Sinton

Friday night at Issue Project Room, Josh Sinton sat with his back to the audience in the middle of the stage, breathing into his contrabass clarinet. It’s a secondary instrument for him: his usual axe is the baritone sax, which he plays with some of New York’s most interesting big bands, notably Darcy James Argue’s Secret Society and Amir ElSaffar‘s Rivers of Sound.

The sound of the horn rumbled through a pedalboard and then a bass amp. In his black suit and matching fedora, he made a somber presence. It was clear from his silhouette, larger than life on the northern wall above the marble arch to the side of the stage, that he was breathing pretty hard. It takes a lot of air to fill those tubes. Sinton did that via circular breathing, in an almost nonstop, practically forty-minute improvisation. Is there an Olympic swimmer who can match that for endurance?

Likewise, the music conjured vast, oceanic vistas – when it wasn’t evoking an old diesel tractor. Several other machines came to mind: an encroaching lawnmower; a bandsaw; the hypnotically comforting thrum from the engine room of an ocean liner, through a heavy bulkhead. Overtones echoed, and pulsed, and sometimes hissed or howled, Sinton pulling back on the volume when that happened until the final ten minutes or so.

There was a point about halfway through when it felt utterly shameful to sit back, eyes closed, and get lost in the rumbling ambience, considering how hard Sinton was working to create such a calming effect. Finally, he opted not to pull away from the rising wall of feedback, letting it shriek as the throb of the amp became more like a jackhammer. Suddenly, what had been incredibly soothing was absolutely assaultive: a couple of people exited the front row. Finally, slowly and methodically, Sinton brought the atmosphere full circle to a barely audible wisp. And then silence.

Sinton calls this project Krasa – it’s a deliberate attempt to push himself out of his comfort zone to spur new creative tangents. Another completely different gig which Sinton has excelled at lately has been as the leader of Phantasos, a Morphine cover band. He had a residency with that trio last month at Barbes, putting a somewhat more slinky edge on Mark Sandman’s noir bounces and dirges. He had Dana Colley’s alternately gruff and plaintive sound down cold, and a rotating cast of bassists and drummers – notably Sam Ospovat- rose to the challenge of doing justice to such an iconic band. Much as Issue Project Room was close to sold out for Krasa, Phantasos could be a money gig to be proud of if Sinton could find the time. 

Stormy Solo Cello Transcendence with Tamas Varga at Merkin Concert Hall

Last week at Merkin Concert Hall, the Vienna Philharmonic’s principal cellist, Tamas Varga played a transcendent, majestic solo concert built around Kodaly’s Sonata for Violincello. Aaron Jay Kernis, who was in the audience, demurred that he’d never heard the piece before Varga had commissioned him and two others to write solo works to accompany the Hungarian composer’s “great masterwork,” as he called it. He wasn’t kidding.

It’s a symphony for solo cello, requiring all sorts of extended technique: harmonics, simultaneous pizzicato and bowing, and maddening metric shifts, among other things. But Varga dug in with relish. Complicating matters is that the two lowest strings are downtuned, something that the rest of the pieces on the bill shared. Varga cut loose churning rivers of low-register chords before rising to a regal theme that sounded suspiciously sardonic. Distantly Bartokian acidity and Romany-tinged flair were muted in the adagio section but burst into bracing focus in the climactic third movement, which ended cold and unresolved. Throughout the work, Varga’s pacing enhanced the suspense, through a couple of wry Beethovenesque false endings, stormy gusts, brooding lulls and finally the flames that leapt from his bow.

The new pieces were fascinating as well. Kernis’ Blues for Mr. Z was the most allusive yet most resonantly colorful of the three. The composer related that just as Kodaly had drawn on the folk music of his native Hungary, he’d decided to incorporate some austere minor-key blues, which turned out more often than not to be implied rather than explicitly evoked.

Varga opened with a meticulously altered stroll through Gregory Vajda’s Captain Hume’s Last Pavin for Violincello. Inspired by a seventeenth-century rant by British composer Tobias Hume, it built toward several possible resolutions that never arrived. Laszlo Vidovszky’s Two Paraphrases for Violincello Solo, based on two themes from the Kodaly work, built enigmatically ambered variations and ended with a shout out to the composer’s shape note system which is ubiquitous in Hungarian music education. Did Kodaly get the idea from the American shape note system, which was very popular in religious and choral music in the early 1800s? That merits further study.

Varga closed with a plaintive, calmly paced, Bach-influenced miniature written by his son, who couldn’t make it to the show…because he was in school. How many young composers have such a brilliant advocate for their work as Varga? And how many brilliant cellists have kids who can write as poignantly as Varga’s son?

This concert was part of the High Note Hungary series staged by the Hungarian Cultural Center, who have been putting on some incredible shows around town over the last couple of years. The best way to stay on top of what’s happening is to get on their email list: this one was a late addition to the calendar.

Two Sides of Evocative, Brilliant Violist and Composer Ljova

Ljova, a.k.a. Lev Zhurbin is one of the world’s most dynamic, versatile violists. As you would expect from someone who’s as busy as a bandleader as he is a sideman, he wears many, many hats: film composer, lead player in a Russian Romany party band, arranger to the stars of indie classical and the Middle East…and loopmusic artist. Ljova’s next New York show is a great chance to see him at full power with Romashka, the wild Romany-flavored band who are playing a killer twinbill with western swing stars Brain Cloud at 8 PM on March 23 at Flushing Town Hall. Cover is $16, $10 for seniors, and kids 19 and under with school ID get in free.

Ljova’s latest album, Solo Opus, is a somewhat calmer but no less colorful one-man string orchestra ep, streaming at Bandcamp. The first three numbers feature Ljova overdubbing and looping his six-string fadolin; the finale is the only viola track here. The album open with The Comet, a broodingly gorgeous, hypnotically epic tone poem written in the wake of the fateful 2016 Presidential election. It’s his Metamorphosen: with its disquieting layers of echo effects, it brings to mind his work with iconic Iranian composer and kamancheh player Kayhan Kalhor. As sirening phrases encroach on the center, could this be a commentary on the perils of a political echo chamber?

Does Say It build from “a gorgeously bittersweet, Gershwinesque four-chord riff to a soaring, bittersweet anthem,” as this blog described it in concert in December? Again, Kalhor’s work is a point of reference, as is the gloomiest side of Russian folk music, particularly when Ljova works the low strings for cello-like tonalities. But there are echoes that could be Gershwin-inspired as the aching melody moves up the scale to a big climatic waltz.

Lamento Larry is a moody interweave of simple, anthemic phrases, rising from a Bach-like interweave of lows to anxious, higher atmospherics, then an echoey blend of the two. Ljova closes the album with the wryly dancing, distantly bluegrass-tinged, pizzicato Lullaby for JS, complete with muffled conversation and tv noise in the background.

An Intensive, Informative, Entertaining Music Course For Everyone

Tamara Hey’s intensive Alphabet City Music Workshops are all about bang for the buck. Classes meet once a week and are very immersive. In a city where topnotch private instruction is everywhere, what’s the advantage? Money, obviously, but also an entertaining environment: these classes are very lively.

Who takes these courses? This blog was in the house for Hey’s Basic Theory 1 class back in 2014, and also for a relatively rare installment of her more advanced Basic Theory 2. The participants in the more advanced class were an intimate bunch: a busy jazz guitarist, a Moroccan-born classical pianist, a singer-songwriter, the frontwoman of a cover band and a longtime sideman working up material for his own project, looking for a refresher course in chart writing. Hey’s currently teaching her popular Music Basics 2 course, for the fist time in a couple of years, in an information-packed three-week session starting March 19, meeting weekly on Tuesdays from 7 to 9 PM through April 2. Comparably speaking, the $105 fee – which can be paid once class starts – is a real bargain, less than a single individual session with a topnoch instructor. The classroom is about a block from the Astor Place train station on the 6 line.

Beyond erudite banter and debate over issues like whether a swing beat is based on a triplet rhythm, or whether the Stones’ Time Is on My Side is in 6/8 or 12/8 time – both of which came up in Basic Theory 2 the last time around – these classes are all about information. You are expected to participate – classes are small, so there’s really no way to be a wallflower – and complete your homework. If you can handle a brisk pace and are committed to learning the material, you will have an awful lot of fun; if you fall behind, it will be less so.

Hey tailors these courses to students’ needs, beyond the basic syllabus. In the Basic Theory 1 class that this blog’s proprietor took, everybody wanted to write charts, so that’s what we focused on. The Basic Theory 2 crowd was more consumed by in the nuts and bolts of songwriting, so there was a lot of analysis and disassembling, using examples from the Beatles to the Kinks to Maroon 5, to name just three.

Along with a weekly class, there’s audio and also a workbook which might be the best bargain of all. Months after you’ve taken the course, if you’ve forgotten something, you can look it up. Basic Theory 1 was built around the circle of fifths: we didn’t get to minors and seventh chords like we eventually did in Theory 2. Ear training and transcription are integral parts of all her courses; Theory 2 requires a basic ability to read music and at least a familiarity with the circle of fifths, while with the course currently being offered, Music Basics 2, a basic knowledge of major scales and rhythm is useful but not mandatory: everybody is welcome.

Hey’s wit in front of the class reflects her devious, clever approach to songwriting – she’s been touring a lot lately, which is why she hasn’t offered this course in awhile. She had a fondness for very short songs with big punchlines, and she really knows her catchy hooks. To get  a sense where she’s coming from in the classroom, you might want to check out her show March 27 at 6 PM at the small room at the Rockwood, where she’s followed at 7 by another deviously funny, more eclectic tunesmith, Lorraine Leckie.

This Year’s Out of the Woods Festival Opens with a Rare, Riveting Performance of Classic Indian Veena Music

This year’s edition of the Women’s Raga Massive’s annual Out of the Woods festival is even more diverse and exciting than last year’s installment. The collective – comprising the female talent in the Brooklyn Raga Massive, who play both traditional and very untraditional Indian and Indian-inspired sounds – put on a series of shows that feature their own talent base along with the most spectacular female players in Indian music from around the world.

Thursday night at the Jazz Gallery, the festival kicked off with what Women’s Raga Massive honcho and violinist Trina Basu described as a “mind-blowing” set by veena player Saraswathi Ranganathan. That description fit Ranganathan’s late set as well. Joined by her percussionist younger brother Ganapathi on mridangam barrel drum, she played with as much savagery as dreaminess in a rivetingly dynamic set based in compositions that ranged from the seventeenth century to the present.

The veena – the many-thousand-years-old ancestor of the sitar – is an increasing rarity in Indian music. Most people who play sit-down Indian fretted instruments learn the sitar instead – and these days, if you want the real maharaj of instruments, you go for the surbahar, with its wide range.

But the veena is special. Maybe more than any other Indian instrument, it has a singing quality, with a range comparable to the cello. Another point of comparison is the slide guitar, something Ranganathan is keenly aware of. She’s well versed in the blues – being based in Chicago might have something to do with that – to the point where, during two concise pieces utilizing modes very close to the American blues scale, there were moments where the music sounded like Chicago blues legend Hound Dog Taylor taking a plunge into the raga repertoire.

Maybe this is also a Chicago thing, but Ranganathan is also very funny, with a relentless, down-to-earth, self-effacing sense of humor. And it runs in the family. While most of the show was all about thrills and suspense, there was also a ridiculously vaudevillian duel between brother and sister: his boomy buffoonery clearly won that one.

Although the pieces on the bill were on the short side, comparatively speaking, typically in the ten to fifteen minute range, they seemed to go on much longer considering the dynamics Ranganathan packed into them. In lieu of the big chord-chopping crescendos that sitarists typically employ, she relied on ornamentation that was more tremoloing than shivery, along with some spine-tingling glissandos and triumphant, almost snarling curlicues as she’d end a phrase.

Her opening number, in as steady a 7/8 meter as you could possibly imagine, dated from the 1850s – a particularly turbulent time in Indian history. Her concluding tune was a catchy, insistent ode to prosperity from about half a century later. In between, she built brooding nocturnal ambience with modes that corresponded closely to the Arabic maqamat before lightening the mood yet at the same time picking up the pace in tandem with her brother. They got a standing ovation from an audience full of some of New York’s most formidable musicians.

The Out of the Woods festival continues this Thursday, March 21 at 7 PM at Joe’s Pub with a potently relevant, immigration-themed multimedia performance, Ask Hafiz, at Joe’s Pub. Based on author Sahar Muradi’s haphazard journey from Soviet-ruled Afghanistan to Queens, it draws on the age-old tradition of turning to poems by Hafiz for advice. There are songs by by edgy Iranian-American songwriter Haleh Liza, dance by Malini Srinivasan, and a band which also includes Basu, Adam Maalouf, Bala Skandan and Rich Stein. Cover is $20.

Soundscapes to Get Lost in and a Crown Heights Show by the Mesmerizing Arooj Aftab

Pakistani singer Arooj Aftab’s latest solo album Siren Islands – streaming at Bandcamp – is one of the most mesmerizingly enveloping releases of recent months. New Yorkers who really want to get lost this weekend can catch her with a guy who also knows a thing or two about swirling ambience, guitarist Gyan Riley, at Happy Lucky No. 1  Gallery in Crown Heights tomorrow night, March 16 at around 8. It’s likely to be an evening of improvisation, something the two excel at: cover is $20.

Aftab sings and plays all the guitars and synthesizers on the album, each recorded live with liberal use of loop pedals, and mixed to a single mono input. There are four tracks: the first three are “islands,” the fourth is a fifteen-minute meditation on Ovid’s Metamorphoses. It’s best appreciated as a single, immersive work.

You need details? As the first Island eases into view, there’s an icy, echoey, lo-fi swirl balanced by Aftab’s soulful, resonant voice. Which soon only comes through in waves, yet it’s vastly more comfortable than numb. The sweep grows more epic with Island No. 2, jangles and bubbles  spicing the slowly shifting sonic panorama.

Island No. 3 is almost eighteen minutes of a spare, gently galloping loop over tectonic washes of sound, Aftab’s vocalese lower and more poignantly insistent. Ovid’s Metamorphoses is the closest thing to Brian Eno here, a considerably sunnier, more tightly spiraling soundscape. For anybody who thinks Aftab’s talents are limited to vocals, guess again.

A Richly Chiming Lincoln Center Debut by Fado Guitarist Marta Pereira da Costa

Even though Portuguese fado music typically deals with intense emotions, there was a special edge in guitarist Marta Pereira da Costa’s playing in her Lincoln Center debut last night. Often when she’d reach the end of a phrase, there would be more of a defiant clang than a chime in her intricate, incisive phrasing, as she fingerpicked her acoustic Portuguese twelve-string model. And she’s funny, and kind of badass: she knew she owned the crowd, and she didn’t try to hide it. In the world of fado, she’s a rarity, as a woman instrumentalist, composer and bandleader: could it be that she’s had to be better than the guys in order to earn the respect she deserves?

A common perception around the globe is that American audiences’ taste in music matches their taste in food: bland and boring. So it’s no surprise that so many state-sponsored tours by acts from outside the country don’t take any chances, or deliberately water down indigenous sounds which are far more interesting on their home turf. Last night’s concert, part of the ongoing fado festival around town, was a welcome exception. As is Jordana Leigh, the Lincoln Center impresario who programmed the show: “New York being an international city, we can’t imagine not putting on international shows that celebrate the diversity of our culture,” she reminded the sold-out audience.

Backed by an elegant quartet of António Pinto on acoustic guitar, Miguel Amado on bass, André Sousa Machado on drums and accordionist Alexandre Diniz, who doubled on piano, Da Costa didn’t limit herself to the plaintive strains of fado, either. One of the night’s most gripping numbers was a moody bolero over a syncopated clave; another was a flamenco-tinged tune, rising and falling with fiery flares, toward the end of the set.

Beyond the lattice of guitars, there wasn’t a lot of interplay or soloing from the rest of the band, other than an unexpected blunderbuss drum break and a more jazz-tinged solo from the piano. Which makes sense: fado is typically vocal music, so that left Da Costa to carry the moody, minor-key melody lines of these songs without words.

In the beginning of the set, she did that with an effortless precision, often with her eyes closed, through elegant single-note patterns, flinging chordlets into the air with the occasional, breathtaking crescendo and a precision so unwavering that it sounded like she was tremolopicking. As the show went on, the songs took on more of a careening edge. Minha Alma, the first song she ever wrote, had more of a pervasive, resonant angst than mere heartbreak. Song number two in her original catalog had more of a jaunty Django strut.

Along with a couple of lingering, resigned traditional fado ballads, Da Costa also introduced a couple of brand-new songs. Memories, inspired by the loss of her grandmother, had a wistful solo intro, Pinto and then the rest of the band joining in a gentle, fond ballad whose distant sense of loss transcended words. From there they picked up with a racewalking minor-key theme fueled by biting volleys of sixteenth notes.

For those who missed it, Da Costa is at Drom tonight, March 15 at 7:15 sharp for $15. There’s another free show tonight at 7:30 at the atrium space at Lincoln Center on Broadway just north of 62nd St., with oldschool salsa dura grooves from one of the style’s great percussionists, Luisito Quintero and his band. Get there early if you’re going. 

Transcendent, Troubled, Richly Relevant Sounds with the Chelsea Symphony Saturday Night

Saturday night the Chelsea Symphony – New York’s most intimate orchestral experience – left the audience spellbound with a program that was a fearlessly relevant as it was stylistically vast.

The coda was a poignant, kinetically evocative version of Ravel’s Tombeau de Couperin that was more dynamic than a famous recording by George Solti and the Chicago Symphony, and had more slink and dark ripple than another by the Cleveland Orchestra under the baton of Pierre Boulez. With a calm meticulousness on the podium, the Chelsea Symphony’s Matthew Aubin brought the war veteran composer’s angst-ridden, distantly Andalucian-influenced WWI-era shout-out to people and an era gone forever into sharp, envelopingly wistful focus. Solos throughout were strikingly direct, especially Jason Smoller’s long, plaintive passage, horn player Emily Wong voicing reason through battlefield smoke a little later. 

There isn’t enough room in the New York Philharmonic for all the great musicians in New York: the Chelsea Symphony is one of the places where they can be found. What differentiates the Chelsea ensemble is that since their season is shorter, they have more time for rehearsals – a grand total of five for this particular bill – and this year, the orchestra have dedicated themselves to socially aware programming. No art for art’s sake this year: it’s all about keeping the music grounded in reality.

Chelsea Symphony bassist and composer Tim Kiah introduced the world premiere of his suite Fascist Baby, contemplating how we can keep our children from going over to the dark side. By implication, certainly, no child is born a fascist: the title is a question rather than an epithet. Kiah’s answer to that question, he said, would be to scare that kid a little, but also to offer hope, precisely what his suite accomplished. From a massed scream in the introduction, through calmer, more bittersweet passages utilizing the entire sonic spectrum a la Gil Evanas, to stabbing, Shostakovian horror and then backing away, solace seemed to trump menace.Conductor Reuben Blundell seemed as swept up in the suspense as to how it would turn out as everybody else was.

He also conducted the night’s second piece, Haydn’s First Cello Concerto, with soloist Erich Schoen-Rene. For those who might have preferred sedate, civilized Haydn, this was not the answer, but for those who wanted to revel in the composer’s irrepressible humor, playful jousting and “gotcha” phrases, this was a real romp. It was also the only point during the evening when there were any issues: in this case, tuning, probably weather-related. St. Paul’s Church on 22nd St. is a charming place to see an orchestra, but drafty 19th century buildings can be challenging for string sections when it’s cold outside.

The night’s centerpiece was what may have been the American premiere of Fernande Decruck’s 5 Poems for Soprano and Chamber Orchestra. The Chelsea Symphony have singlehandedly springboarded a revival of the mid-20th composer’s symphonic work, and Aubin has become the world’s leading Decruck scholar. He’s right in calling her extraordinary: one of the few women composers whose work was frequently played throughout Europe in the 1940s, her career was tragically cut short.

In a stroke of synchronicity, both the original 1944 version of this piece as well as the Ravel had been premiered by the same French ensemble, the Ochestre Colonne. Additionally, Decruck and her multi-instrumentalist husband, who played in the New York Philharmonic, lived in the London Terrace apartments in Chelsea, just a few blocks away, during the 1930s.

Introducing the piece, Aubin mentioned a possible political subtext: although the suite derives from liturgical themes, religion barely factors into Decruck’s oeuvre. Rather, the five sections came across as more of a harrowing, relentlessly elegaic commentary on the horrors of war, and as much of a condemnation of those who collaborated with the enemy. Soprano Kate Maroney kept those dynamics front and center, finally rising to an accusatory peak over an insistently somber backdrop. The bass section in particular stood out here, both in the stern first part and later in a surreal, hypnotically brooding one-chord bolero of sorts. Both years ahead of its time and timeless, there’s never been a better moment for this music to be resurgent. If this was recorded, the Chelsea Symphony ought to release it.

The Chelsea Symphony’s next concerts are May 18 at 8 PM, repeating on the 19th at 2 at the DiMenna Center, featuring Shostakovich’s harrowing Symphony No. 5 as well as works by Dvorak, Courtney Bryan and Eric Ewazen. Suggested donation is $20.

Shimmering and Shattering Mozart This Week From the New York Philharmonic

Last night the New York Philharmonic went from a whisper to a scream in a performance of two iconic Mozart works that even by this orchestra’s standards were revelatory. The Philharmonic are pairing the Requiem with Mozart’s final piano concerto, No. 27 in B Flat, featuring soloist Richard Goode tomorrow night, March 15 at 8 PM, as well as March 16 at 8 and March 19 at 7:30 PM. If you’ve never seen these pieces before, go – this is a rare chance to get a foundational understanding. If you have, these performances may reorient you, profoundly.

This was not a particularly loud Requiem. Notwithstanding that harrowing jolt where Mozart realizes that things are not going to end well – “Rex! Rex!” the choir implores – and that several later passages are as grand as guignol gets, the orchestra didn’t play them that way. In the early going, conductor Manfred Honeck put his hand to his ear, an admonition to remain hushed, and both the orchestra and the Westminster Symphonic Choir standing against the back wall stayed as sotto-voce and dead serious as they possibly could have been. Many ensembles can’t resist the temptation to make Halloween out of it, but this Requiem fulfilled its function as elegy and also as liturgical music, true to the commission Mozart accepted. Employing his motet Ave Verum Corpus as a solemn summation to this uncompleted version was a respectful acknowledgment that we’ll never know how the composer wanted it to end.

As David Bernard has astutely observed, eighty percent of the Requiem is either repetition or Mozart understudy Franz Sussmayr. How do you save repetition from being redundant? Change the dynamics. What a difference Honeck’s choice made when the introductory theme came around again, this time closer to pine box than velvet. Contrasts between mens’ and women’s voices were striking and distinct, other than in the two bewildering series of quasi-operatic, Handelian eighth note volleys that are so out of place that one assumes it was Sussmayr, not Mozart, who came up with them.

Among the four vocal soloists, soprano Joelle Harvey’s forceful delivery was particularly impactful, as was mezzo-soprano Megan Mikhailovna Samarin’s more understated, moody approach, in her Philharmonic debut. Tenor Ben Bliss and bass Matthew Rose exchanged roles as voices of doom and hope against hope. Snippets of somber Mozart Masonic funeral music made an apt introduction and brought everything full circle.

Much as the Requiem was played through a stained glass window, darkly, the Piano Concerto sparkled with coy humor. Goode’s floating articulacy on the keys, through jaunty, fleeting crescendos, jeweled cascades and some jousting with the orchestra, was unselfconsciously joyous. Likewise, the orchestra were seamless unless a particular moment called for some goofy peek-a-boo from an individual voice – Mozart uses the flute a lot for that. There were a few slight transitory glitches early on, but things like that typically get ironed out after opening night.

A Catchy, Evocative Solo Bass Album and a NYC Release Show This Week from Larry Grenadier

Is it possible that a recording of compositions for solo bass could be of interest to anyone who isn’t a bass player? Larry Grenadier’s new solo album, The Gleaners – streaming at Spotify – transcends any tag you might want to put on it: it’s just good lower-register music. He’s playing the album release show – solo, of course – at the at Zürcher Gallery at 33 Bleecker St just east of Lafayette. Cover is $20.

He digs in and bows hard on Oceanic, an aptly titled, catchy anthem, testament to how melodically he approaches the instrument. The second track, an Oscar Pettiford tribute, has a more complex swing, although this is a case where it sounds like he’s basically playing a bassline sans band.

He picks up the bow again for the album’s austerely lilting title track, a miniature with distant Celtic influences. Woebegone doesn’t evoke forlorn ambience as much it as bubbles along: it could be a lively bass arrangement of a classic Appalachian melody. Likewise, the spaciously paced ballad Gone Like the Season Does, by his wife Rebecca Martin, is a song without words (or a song without band – these basslines could be great fun for other instrumentalists to play along to).

The album’s darkest and most epic track is a diptych of Coltrane’s Compassion and Paul Motian’s The Owl of Cranston. Interestingly, Grenadier brings out a distantly Armenian-tinged austerity in the Trane composition, taking his time working down to the most stygian part of the register, then eventually spiraling gingerly upward before the elegant sway of the second half.

The stark, stormy staccato phrases of Vineland bring to mind contemporary composers like Julia Wolfe as much as traditional Americana. Lovelair, another ballad without words, is one place here where a tasteful, dynamic drummer like Eric McPherson and a terse horn player or pianist would be welcome.

The album has two little Bagatelles: the first a stark dirge with eerie belltone sonics, the second a tasty, rumbling little groove with a funny Fab Four quote. Grenadier opens his take of My Man’s Gone Now with an acidically bowed solo, overtones flying from the strings; from there, it’s all about mystery and allusions, as he never hits the tune head-on. The album’s coup de grace is a murky miniature, A Novel in a Sigh. Hearing all this, it’s easy to see how Motian, and Pat Metheny, and so many others have wanted to work with this guy,