Beiggja: Morning (Hubro CD2671)
Although not it’s intended as a site-specific work, I can’t help thinking that the music on this debut album by Dutch-Norwegian quartet Beiggja has been profoundly inspired by its surroundings. Deep in the forest in the winter of 2024 at the snowy Lommedalen home of Per Oddvar Johansen, the drummer was joined by pianist Kjetil Mulelid, bassist Mats Eilertsen and Dutch alto and soprano saxophonist Kika Sprangers, a rising star in her homeland. Together they channel the slow-burning lyricism of Jarrett’s Scandinavian 70s quartet, adapting it to their own ends, and each player contributes at least one composition to the attractive programme of originals.
The group’s collective telepathy often borders on the magical, and to gauge the extent to which the material is shaped in the moment you only need listen to the two contrasting versions of Sprangers’ Swims which bookend the album. The first is a dark and invitingly open Stanko-esque ballad, while the second is a little faster, subtly reharmonised and somewhat more wistful. Sprangers’ What If combines the melancholia of Wheeler with the long melodic arcs of Konitz, and on Far her delicate and beautifully poised solo emerges from the rather ominous backdrop of Mulelid’s low-rolling thunder. The pianist’s Encore pirouettes around a strong left-hand figure, generating a good deal of forward motion, and along with the Ornette-ish Love Story it’s the most uptempo piece of the set. Standout track is perhaps Johansen’s sublime Love Cycle, Sprangers weaving her light, airy lines into the silence, but in truth it seems rather churlish to pick a favourite from an album offering such an embarrassment of riches from first to last.
Jay Davis: BadTrad (Fresh Sound New Talent FSNT 698)
It’s not just the pop-art inspired collage on the cover of London-based drummer Jay Davis’s leadership debut that will transport you back to the early 60s – the sounds of that colourful era are very much in evidence too. Collectively known as BadTrad, Davis’s piano-less post-bop quartet features James Allsopp (ts, cl, bcl), Mike Soper (t, flh) and Huw V. Williams (b). Together they tackle nine originals spanning rough-house free-bop to introspective balladry, and while it’s really more of an EP than a long-player this is one of those sets where brevity equals impact.
It opens brightly with Lexie’s Song, and the Coleman-esque theme is attacked with gusto, Allsopp’s gruff Ayleresque exchanges with Davis bridging into the New Thing. The Way A.I. Am ventures into similar territory with its striking stop-start theme and Soper’s expressive muted solo, Williams and Davis locking-in like Izenzon and Moffett. The ruminative Bredon threatens to boil over as Allsopp trades phrases with Soper, while Happy Man Finsbury Park finds Davis and Williams having fun with an elastic calypso groove, Allsopp and Soper’s well-constructed solos hitting the mark once again. Several sepia-toned vignettes are scattered across the piece to showcase Davis’s gifts as composer. Big Top, Wonker and Gone Are The Days Of Fresh Soup are perhaps the pick of the bunch, the latter’s dark sinuous theme recalling Shorter’s early Blue Notes.
Goran Kajfeš and Andreas Tilliander: In Cmin (Kontra KM060)
When I first heard Swedish electronica artist and producer Andreas Tilliander’s glitchy minimalist classic Ljud back in 2001 I could never have imagined that I’d be reviewing his music for Jazz Journal. Yet this collaboration with trumpeter Goran Kajfeš (Oddjob, Tropiques) most definitely belongs here, and with so much of the new Scandinavian ambient jazz scene embracing the music of Tilliander and his contemporaries it’s a collaboration that makes perfect sense.
If the album’s title nods to Terry Riley, In Cmin really owes more to Jon Hassell’s Fourth World, Nils Petter Molvaer’s post-Khmer soundscapes and Toshinori Kondo’s ambient leaning works with Bill Laswell. Tilliander uses analogue synths and tape delays to create the suitably spacious mise-en-scène, variously floating and anchored by deep sub-sonic bass. The often muted Kajfeš adopts a Milesian stance and is particularly effective on the balletic Minor Sea, the darker and rather more dystopian Nef Argo and the shapeless rubato drift of Bending Things. He downs the trumpet to play a flute owned by his late father on Montes Caucasus, the collision of Balkan rhythms and icy ambient swells creating a pleasantly discombobulating set of contrasts. The nine minutes of Moss are pure unadulterated ambient jazz bliss, while the title of the closing Twozerozerofive refers to the pair’s first and positively fateful meeting at the 2005 Swedish Grammis awards. Let’s hope there’s more to come from this dynamic duo.
Geir Sundstøl: Sakte Film (Hubro CD2662)
The temptation to describe Norwegian guitarist, pedal steel and assorted instrument collector Geir Sundstøl’s music as cinematic can be hard to resist, his Americana-tinged soundscapes offering the listener a genuinely widescreen experience. Sakte Film (“Slow Motion”) is his sixth album for Hubro, and while it brings no dramatic shifts in style, the addition of string arrangements from Erik Sollid, Sunniva Shaw, Håkon Brunborg and Mari Persen accentuates an already strong melodic core. Remarkably, very few of the musicians actually met during the recordings, the finished pieces having been largely constructed in post-production via cut-and-paste editing techniques.
The set gets off to an invigorating start with the groove-based Mats (for bandmate Mats Eilertsen). The piece carries echoes of Satchidananda-era Alice Coltrane and features Sundstøl on bulbul tarang, resonator and pedal-steel guitars. Broder and Divan are commissions for a podcast and TV respectively and appear a little more incidental by comparison. Maroder Misjonær (“Marauder Missionary”) introduces a relaxed swamp-blues feel, and Nabel fuses Sundstøl’s pedal steel and Erland Dahlen’s musical saw to spine-tingling effect. The folkish Snille Spøkelse (“Gentle Ghost”) is the album’s most atmospheric piece, with lyrics and vocals from Sanne Rambags and Ivar Orvedal and brass from Hildegun Øiseth, while Sundstøl’s cinematic traits are fully evident on the closing Pysj, a short evocative sketch that could easily be mistaken for a Morricone leitmotif. With a fertile imagination and instinctive grasp of mood and form, Sundstøl is growing in stature with each successive release.
