OGJB Quartet's "Ode to O," Cyrille/Parker/Rava's "2 Blues for Cecil"

This year is the first one where aging really hit me like a ton of bricks. Not just in my own loss of physical capacity, but in the passing of so many of the figures of my time here. In a single week this month, we lost esteemed scribe Greg Tate, bebop piano exemplar Barry Harris, and reggae bass touchstone Robbie Shakespeare. I get that our time is ending, but damn. First bell hooks, now Joan Didion? Mercy!

The last decade has seen the passing of the two musicians who, forced to choose, I'd name as the greatest of the era: Ornette Coleman in 2015, Cecil Taylor in 2018. Ornette's music continues to be played: his electric band Prime Time reunited, with an all-star front line, for a fest in San Francisco in 2017; Tim Berne's Ornette-and-associates tribute band Broken Shadows released their debut disc on Intakt this year. Cecil's idiosyncratic approach to band leadership makes his ensemble works challenging to replicate; his force-of-nature pianistics are inimitable. But he too has his inheritors. Now Finnish label TUM Records -- whose documentation of octogenarian Wadada Leo Smith's recent outburst of creativity we've been following with great interest -- is poised to drop two new recordings dedicated to those free jazz originators.

Ode to O is the second outing for the quartet of Oliver Lake, Graham Haynes, Joe Fonda, and Barry Altschul. Each member of the OGJB Quartet has his own illustrious history: Lake with the Black Artists Group, World Saxophone Quartet, and Trio 3; Haynes with Steve Coleman's Five Elements, Butch Morris, and Vijay Iyer; Fonda with the Fonda/Stevens Group and Anthony Braxton; Altschul as drummer of choice for Paul Bley, Chick Corea, Braxton, and Sam Rivers during crucial periods. The members of the trio on 2 Blues for Cecil have similarly distinguished backgrounds, with the commonality of having worked with Taylor: Andrew Cyrille occupying the drum chair in the pianist's Unit from 1964 to 1975, William Parker as the Unit's bassist from 1980 to 1991, and Enrico Rava playing trumpet in Taylor's '80s orchestras.

Lake previously paid tribute to a primary influence, Coleman's contemporary Eric Dolphy, on his albums Prophet (1981), Virtual Reality (Total Escapism) (1992), and Dedicated to Dolphy (1996). The OGJB Quartet's instrumentation mirrors that of the "classic" Ornette Coleman quartet, and on Lake's composition "Justice," they employ some of that storied unit's signature strategies -- slowly unfolding melody over tumbling rhythm section, sparring simultaneous soloing from the horns, setting the stage for individual statements. 

Fonda's "Me Without Bela" -- the title refers to another piece that juxtaposed the bassist's writing with parts of Bartok's String Quartets -- occupies the same ruminative space as Ornette's "Beauty is a Rare Thing," until Altschul introduces a pulse midway through. The rhythm section mates have worked together since 2003 in trios with Billy Bang and Jon Irabagon. Altschul's "Da Bang" -- a dedication to the late violinist which opens with a drum solo demonstrating its composer's broad textural palette -- is a showcase for their telepathic swing. Besides rendering homage to the past, Ode to O also has eyes squarely on the future, as when cornetist Haynes adds live electronics to the mix on his composition "The Other Side" and the collective improvisation "OGJB #4." 

In contrast, 2 Blues for Cecil takes its tribute less literally. In the deliberately sparse sound of the trumpet-fronted trio, there's a palpable absence -- the cavernous sound of Cecil's "88 tuned drums." Having lately led a trio and two quartet dates for ECM with collaborators including Bill Frisell, Wadada Leo Smith, and Richard Teitelbaum, Cyrille remains a polyrhythmic wonder, and his active dialogue with the accomplished and prolific Parker's deep song opens up myriad possibilities for Rava (heard here on flugelhorn) and his solitary, searching sound. When the three improvise collectively, as they do on two takes of the title tune, they embody the spirit, if not the letter, of Taylor's creativity. It's tempting but trite to say he'd have wanted nothing more -- but surely, from these musicians, we should expect nothing less. So when they close the album by briefly essaying "My Funny Valentine" -- the kind of Tin Pan Alley fodder Cecil abandoned with 1959's Love for Sale -- Whitney Balliett's "sound of surprise" is still palpable.