Since its inauguration in 2000, Thirsty Ear's Blue Series has predominantly directed its focus towards the future horizons of avant-jazz, uniting disparate acts such as Spring Heel Jack, El-P, and DJ Spooky with some of today's top free-playing musicians to create several dazzlingly modern mutant hybrids. But on Luc's Lantern, William Parker's latest contribution to the series, the ever-prolific bassist/composer has crafted a song suite decidedly steeped in pure bop traditionalism, resulting in what is perhaps the least innovative album in his enormous discography. And though there's little here that would've sounded too outlandish on a typical Blue Note release ca. 1959, Parker is able to infuse these compositions with enough of his melodic, uniquely tender vitality to keep the album from ever resembling a rote museum piece.
Joining Parker for this session are drummer Michael Thompson and the classically-trained pianist Eri Yamamoto, a pair considerably less fire-breathing than such past Parker collaborators as Cecil Taylor, David S. Ware, or Hamid Drake. And though both players here sound perfectly capable of matching their leader's stride, there are several points through the likes of "Adena" or "Evening Star Song" where they defer to Parker's bass a bit too readily while he-perhaps not fully realizing his own strength-- casually outmuscles his bandmates to the front of the mix.
Even so, the trio here realize several peaks of vibrant melodicism and supple cohesion, never more so than on the pair of glowing mid-album tributes "Jaki" and "Bud in Alphaville," which pay respectful homage to their jazz pianist forbears Jaki Byard and Bud Powell, both of whom performed with another of this set's obvious touchstones, Charles Mingus. On "Jaki" the three musicians settle into an amiable saunter that sounds as though it'd be ready to convert into a stripped-down version of Mingus' "Fables of Faubus" at the arch of an eyebrow, while on "Bud in Alphavilla", Yamamoto expertly echoes Powell's Bird-inspired single-note runs and nimble chords with Thompson adding flawless cymbal-crashing punctuation to the tune's every tight corner.
Throughout the album the musicians each keep their solos crisp and restrained, subordinating their playing to Parker's deft songcraft. This tasteful understatement yields great dividends on tracks like the wearily romantic ballad "Charcoal Flower" or the vivid "Phoenix", which features Yamamoto pounding out barrelhouse chords by the fistful, sounding just a shot or two removed from the honky-tonk.
Given Parker's almost super-human productivity-- he's appeared as leader or sideman on upwards of 40 albums since 2000-- his fans can afford to be fussy about which portions of his catalog they decide to sample. And with its adroit, seemingly effortless take on traditionalism, Luc's Lantern should prove to be as accessible a point of entry as a newcomer could hope for, and as a refreshing, uncomplicated rear-view glance for Parker's established jazz audience.
