John Lurie has always had a big personality. If you’ve seen him act in films, all you need to hear is titles like Stranger Than Paradise and Down By Law to be reminded of his distinctive speaking and gesturing. Yet even though he can steal a scene, he rarely comes across as an egotist. In fact, he’s usually a consummate collaborator. Though his most recent pursuit, painting, is a solo venture, he has mostly preferred collectivism, from the no wave films he directed in the late 70s, to his 90s pseudo-nature-show "Fishing With John" (in which he bantered masterfully with Tom Waits, Willem Dafoe, and Dennis Hopper), to his most communal project, the punk-informed jazz outfit Lounge Lizards, whose rotating lineup included at least 30 different members.
This penchant for collaboration extended even to the band that took his name, the John Lurie National Orchestra, who sounded more like a democratic group than a star vehicle. This despite the fact that they were just a trio, comprising Lurie on saxophones and Billy Martin and Calvin Weston—both Lounge Lizards—on drums. That instrumental setup makes Lurie obstensibly the leader, and indeed on The Invention of Animals —a posthumous collection of live recordings and studio tracks used for "Fishing With John" episodes—his playing is more free-flowing than the steady, loop-like drumming of his colleagues. But it never feels like Lurie is the commander and Martin and Weston are soldiers following orders. Every sonic element is equally important, and the mesh the three men weave forms both the spine and the heart of each track.
The result of that mesh is a restrained, subdued record. The trio is in no hurry to get anywhere other than where they started, and more interested in stitching patterns together than fighting for elbow room. Filled with repetition and space, this isn’t exactly trance music, but it certainly has a way of making you feel hypnotized. So the tension on The Invention of Animals comes not from rapid shifts in tempo or volume, but smaller, more subtle variations. Playing things this low and understated can be risky; it would be easy for the group to drift into colorless new age reverie. But even the mellowest moments bubble with ideas and energy.
That’s true even in the few instances where Lurie steps out in front of his comrades. Take the ballad-like “Little”, which is practically a Lurie solo. Here, his wistful soprano notes are central, but tiny clicks of percussion in the background are just as crucial, giving charge to a piece that could otherwise freeze. Similar dynamics mark the beginning of Invention’s peak, the closing title track. The build here is particularly mind-bending, as the trio navigate a series of crests by precisely modulating their levels of activity and pressure. Yet that precision never sounds clinical. There’s blood coursing through every second of the piece, in a way that makes it feel half its 19-minute length.
So much blood, in fact, that it’s hard to fathom why the John Lurie National Orchestra isn’t an ongoing concern. Lurie himself has been out of the public eye in recent years, at least compared to his busy presence in the 80s and 90s as an always-interesting actor, director, and musician. If you’re unfamiliar with that latter role, there are some great Lounge Lizards records out there waiting for you. But *The Invention of Animals *is just as good a place to start, and hopefully it will help get people talking again about a man who’s carved out one of the most unique American artistic careers of the past four decades.
