Although Jeff Parker is the one whose name is written in big letters out on the sidewalk blackboard, the Chicago-based jazz guitarist has always been savvy enough to recognize that-- in the words of De Niro-as-Capone-- nobody wins unless the team wins. As with his work in Tortoise and Isotope 217, Parker's playing as a bandleader is virtually egoless, and on The Relatives he remains steadfast in his willingness to temper and subordinate his instrument's voice in the broader interests of the group at large.
Such cooperative benevolence would seem misplaced if Parker hadn't the wherewithal to surround himself with such sympathetic players. Joining him here is his regular rhythm section of drummer Chad Taylor and bassist Chris Lopes (both of whom played on Parker's 2003 debut as headliner, Like-Coping) as well as Sam Barsheshet on Fender Rhodes and Wurlitzer. Here, the quartet move in a loose-limbed, baggy lockstep, with each member given an equal place at the table. If you were to approach this album blindfolded, you might easily assume Taylor or Barsheshet to be the ringmaster, so humbly does Parker deliver his sparklingly clean, unfussy guitar contributions.
Significantly less abstract and more song-oriented than many of Parker's past recordings (particularly noise-laden improv experiments such as Out Trios, Vol. 2, his 2003 collaboration with Kevin Drumm and Michael Zerang), on The Relatives he also shares songwriting duties with his bandmates, as well as tackling an ambitious cover of Marvin Gaye's "When Did You Stop Loving Me, When Did I Stop Loving You". The album opens with the laidback swank of Taylor's "Istanbul", where Parker's breezy acoustic guitar and Barsheshet's organ laze about sunning themselves on the rocks, before the driving, almost Meters-like R&B; fusion of "Mannerisms" arrives to shake them from their idyll. The melodic riffling of Lopes' "Sea Change" explores some of the same dusky film noir shadows that Tortoise haunted early in their lifespan, while on the title track Barsheshet conjures up a shimmering, humid glaze from the keyboards in a manner that fondly recalls Herbie Hancock's Sextant.
Unfortunately, there are occasions when the group skirt dangerously close to the same easy-listening tar pits that have ensnared so many post-rock fusionists. When Lopes introduces a flute on the turtleneck-clad jazz-pop of "Beanstalk", you may fear that you've inadvertently stumbled across Anchorman's Ron Burgundy playing an after-hours set down at the supper club. Thankfully, however, such missteps are few, and over the bulk of The Relatives these musicians sound positively ecstatic to be playing with and for each other (if one is to trust the large number of animated hollers they give one another during the course of the album). If you grant them some attention, I expect you'll find their enthusiasm to be infectious.
