There are no electronic instruments or added effects on Park Jiha’s debut album, Communion. In 2018, that alone is almost enough to lend an art-music air to the project. Add in the unorthodox instrumentation—Jiha’s trio of traditional Korean instruments, plus bass clarinet, saxophone, vibraphone, and percussion—and her new-music affinities seem obvious. But when you actually listen to Communion, which contains just under an hour of the Korean musician’s compositions, it’s much harder to fit into one genre. Is it jazz, as the sprawling sax solos and collective improvisation might suggest? Is it minimalism, drawn out in the pulsing grooves established by both Jiha’s yanggeum, a type of hammered dulcimer, and the vibraphone? With its general adherence to conventional tonality and emphasis on ambience, as well as the synth-like quality of the saenghwang (a Korean mouth-organ), is it an acoustic take on modern electronic music?
The only real answer to those questions is “all of the above.” While it may not be strictly representational, the project is dominated by clear, mostly unadorned phrases that almost seem like they might have lyrics that just aren’t being articulated. (Jiha sings as well, just not on this project.) On the title track, where she plays the piri—a double-reed instrument that she says is her favorite—one hears her flair for simple, evocative melodies, made transcendent by her virtuosic ability and lyric style.
Jiha’s gift is in her ability to skirt dull prettiness in favor of exploiting the edges of her instruments, yet not at the expense of tangible, straightforward melodies. It’s a tough balancing act to pull off, and she does it effortlessly. Her occasional dissonance, showcased on the cathartic jam “All Souls’ Day,” is that much more impactful for its rarity. There’s no edginess for its own sake, only unforced and briefly chaotic climaxes that ultimately recede back into the album’s primary vibe: serenity.
Communion, while hardly a project that fades into the background, still has the potential to encourage the listener to do some yogic breathing. It’s melancholy and peaceful without being boring. The production emphasizes each instrument’s natural resonance for a fluid, continual sound—one that doesn’t really suggest any particular time or place. Certainly there are moments in the harmony that evoke traditional East Asian music, but they’re quickly obscured by some soaring solo or pulsing vibraphone. “World music” is a farce of a term, but Communion does feel global in a way that’s unusual.
The project’s overall cohesiveness and clarity of purpose make it almost movie score-like, yet there’s no part of the album that’s intended to underline anything but Jiha’s compelling musicianship. That is what makes Communion so easy to listen to. It’s creative and singular in a way that’s soothing, not alienating.
Jiha’s approachable compositional style and incredibly evocative playing make this album an accessible way into contemporary improvised music. Her debut’s genreless, organic sound makes it almost therapeutic, each piece a meditation on some melody to be explored but never abandoned. It challenges without feeling like homework, and creates ambience without tedium. On the album’s final track, “The First Time I Sat Across From You,” her yanggeum groove begins so lushly it could almost be the backbone to a pop song. Eventually it escalates into a clanging, metal-esque climax before slowing to one of the album’s few full stops. After a breath she begins the groove again, but strips parts away—like an ebbing tide—until there’s nothing left but a single, noteless creak.
