William Parker - Luc's Lantern

Thirsty Ear 57158

Since its inception in 2000, Thirsty Ear’s Blue Series has mostly failed to live up to the bold, quasi-revolutionary rhetoric of producer Peter Gordon, who, frustrated by a “growing complacency to challenge convention,” pledged to “create a series of records marrying jazz’s many languages” that would “challenge, probe, excite, and perhaps even anger listeners as we try to strip away conventions with a new convention.” Five years and some 40 albums later, the Blue Series has generated more heat than light, and listeners, if indeed they are shocked or angered by what they are hearing, seem to be registering their indignation with deafening silence.

All that said, the Blue Series has had its high points over the last half-decade, thanks in large part to the efforts of bassist William Parker, who has served admirably as sideman on numerous sessions for the label, and more importantly, has led two of Thirsty Ear’s most striking records to date, Painter’s Spring (2000) and Scrapbook (2003), each of which showcased Parker’s versatile playing and evocative writing in the trio format. Unfortunately, the latest trio date headed by Parker for the Thirsty Ear label, Luc’s Lantern, fails to live up to the standard established by its predecessors.

In the liner notes accompanying the disc, Parker explains the significance of the title. In a recurring dream, Parker writes, “I see a forest where only black trees with yellow and/purple teeth grow/Trees that play violins and write poems.” Each night “a small lantern is left on the porch so I can make my way/back home.” Such reflections are fitting for Parker, whose music has always favored the mythological over the logical, the lyrical over the prosaic. Parker’s romantic spirit has always formed the wellspring of his musical genius, and his most remarkable albums have owed their success not only to his own facility as a double bass player and bandleader, but also to his stellar bandmates. To borrow Parker’s own analogy, it has been the daring, declarative work of musicians such as reedman Daniel Carter, violinist Billy Bang, and drummer Hamid Drake that have translated the mystical significance of the forest with black trees and shone the light necessary to carry those meanings back home to the listener.

Parker’s chosen mates for this current session, pianist Eri Yamamoto and drummer Michael Thompson, are not up to the same task, though the fault is not necessarily their own. Parker’s music is best served by players who can match the bass player’s aggressive playing and round, full tone with pyrotechnics of their own, but here the music seems restrained. Yamamoto’s command over her instrument is sensitive and deft, but incapable of reaching the same emotive heights achieved by Carter on Painter’s Spring or Bang on Scrapbook. It may be that Parker’s music demands the presence of at least one reed, but in either event the results seem oddly restrained and confined. I have greatly enjoyed Michael Thompson’s work both live and on record. His percussive pallet is expansive, reflecting his diverse experience in a wide array of contexts—from reggae to classical—but here he seems somehow constrained, too far in the background.

The two opening numbers, “Adena” and “Song for Tyler” are quiet and contemplative, almost drowsy, save for the typically forceful, out-in-front Parker. Imagine a run-of-the-mill ECM album, except with a bass player on steroids, and you’d have a rough approximation of the tempo and flavor of these opening numbers. Things pick up a bit from there with “Mourning Sunset,” “Evening Star Song,” and the title track. “Evening Star Song” is the best performance on the album, as the contemplative, rueful melody captures the essence of a fading Sunday afternoon, when the setting sun casts a graying light over the dying day. The title track, the most up-tempo number on the album, gives all three players an opportunity to display their chops, but I found little in the individual performances or the interaction between the players to hold onto as a listener.

Over the final five numbers the album wobbles between occasional moments of beauty and an overarching lack of focus. A minor delight for this listener was Parker’s brief work with the bow on “Charcoal Flower,” which he returns to for the final piece, “Candlesticks on the Lake,” a short number which comes to an abrupt, yet predictable, halt.

Taken together, the ten pieces on Luc’s Lantern check in at an easily-digestible 47 minutes. Kudos to Robert Beam for designing one of the best covers of the year so far. Unfortunately for the listener, the music fails to match the mythological promise of the title or the descriptive powers of the brush. For Parker completists only.

~ David Jones