To call yourselves the New Jazz Trio takes a certain amount of presumptuousness, perhaps, and the music on So . . . !, while accomplished enough, is hardly innovative. This is for the most part acoustic jazz-rock, though of an unexpectedly spare kind, propulsive but never densely textured or aggressive. The seven compositions are arranged into two long continuous performances; though they are rather sparsely populated by genuine themes: heads are brief punctuation marks within the musical continuum, islands of actual harmonic movement within a more static whole. Though the music is based around solos, they seem rather constrained in this setting, as if decorating a structure rather than actively developing one: the music always seems to be in the middle of a segue.

None of this is to say that the disc doesn’t have its merits. The basic piano trio is a tad bland, as is Michel’s flugelhorn, but Ferris and Schöb, who both have arresting, vocalized sounds, are intriguing additions to the group. The music clearly is designed to exploit this stylistic contrast: the CD begins and ends with a harsh a cappella outburst from Ferris, for instance, and “Talk” contains a central section requiring the three horns to engage in vocal mimicry. Yet I find So . . . ! a curiously evanescent experience – it is quite listenable, but once it’s over little lingers in the mind and ear.

The second disc, New Delegation (there’s that word “new” again . . . ) is much more like it. This kind of freeish chamber jazz is indebted to the ECM aesthetic, and its lineage might be traced back to Jimmy Giuffre’s classic 1961–62 albums with Paul Bley and Steve Swallow. The recording is apparently taken from a live concert (though applause is edited out); like the other disc it is a near-continuous block of music, segueing at a leisurely pace between Arbenz originals. In this more rarefied and subdued context Ferris (an unjustly little-celebrated player) again proves his mettle. Arbenz isn’t an especially distinctive or exploratory pianist, but what matters is that his playing is attractive and disciplined, and meshes closely with the other players. The most compelling work here, though, is Marc Johnson’s, rhythmically and melodically exacting even when the music is in free fall. Though the album is perhaps a shade too discreet and polished, it’s nonetheless accomplished and pleasing music.

The curious though elegant packaging of these discs deserves a mention. Both are contained in elaborately constructed card sleeves which the liner notes instruct us to use as a “wall-mounted art object” (a slot on the back allows it to be hung from a tack or nail). The covers are blank, however, except for a featureless splotch of coloured ink. I’d wager that no-one except for the labelowners has ever actually followed these instructions . . . but then again, what do I know about German interior decoration?

Nate Dorward

Cadence, January 2003