As off-the-mainstream jazz sinks deeper into a niche, it's more difficult to track down all of the great improvisers in America-- let alone the rest of the world, where a glance at the hatArt or Leo Records catalogs turns up dozens of new and unfamiliar names. So I was pleased to discover the work of Mark O'Leary, a guitarist based in Cork, Ireland-- and was even more surprised to learn he'd worked with so many big names of improv here and abroad, from touring in Paul Bley's group, to collaborating with downtown New Yorkers like Joey Baron and Matthew Shipp.
O'Leary plays with a clean, unpretentious tone, spinning inventive solos that he can ratchet up to breathless speeds with no sign of showiness. He echoes the rigorously unadorned style of Joe Morris, and his technique of switching (sometimes mid-piece) between a distorted tone and a gentle, sustained one resembles Bill Frisell's style without cloning it. But as a rule, O'Leary shies away from easy imitations: You can guess who he's listened to, but his style is his own.
Just last year, O'Leary released four strong albums on Leo. Each one puts him in a trio with a risky, adventurous sideman, a drummer or a pianist for the rhythm section, and no bassist-- a gap that leaves each band challengingly unanchored. I recommend the pensive Chamber Trio album with Matthew Shipp and Mat Maneri, or his latest record with Uri Caine and Ben Perowsky, Closure, a rambunctious date where O'Leary pushes his knuckles as fast as they can bend in a John McLaughlin-like wrestling match with his fretboard. But the best place to start would be Levitation, a session from five years ago with distinguished Polish trumpeter Tomasz Stanko and veteran jazz and fusion drummer Billy Hart.
Throughout this one-day session you can hear the chemistry develop between Stanko and O'Leary: Both men are serious and measured, but also curious. The mostly languorous tempos make them pace like animals checking out their turf, while Hart-- ducking away from a time-keeping role-- keeps the ground shifting and shaking beneath them. This is the kind of slow but taut improvisation that few people do well, and it's almost always engrossing. And when they heat up, they can knock the wind out of you-- especially on the 16-minute title cut, where O'Leary gradually turns up the distortion as he and Stanko trade one feverish solo after another. This is patient music, but it sure knows how to pounce.
