It’s been a while since bassist Stephan Crump left the frequently knotty rhythmic matrices of the Vijay Iyer Trio following a twenty-year association. His output since then has been perhaps more considered than might have been imagined. Over the course of fourteen leadership dates, avoiding the obvious has become a hallmark of his practice, whether that be in the two guitar Rosetta Trio, in duet with Mary Halvorson, or the uncategorizable Planktonic Tales with saxophonist Ingrid Laubrock and pianist Cory Smythe.

Returning to the format in which he first came to prominence, Crump forms one third of the Borderlands Trio, alongside pianist Kris Davis and drummer Eric McPherson. The threesome reunites for its third release Rewilder, a double album of eight spontaneously generated pieces. Like its predecessors, it hovers between introspection and exuberance, with a tendency for the former which lends all the more weight to the latter when it arrives. A notably egalitarian outfit, the modus operandi is one of conversational flow in which everyone has their say, regularly starting spaciously with a keen consideration of detail and placement, maintained even as the density increases.

Often the temptation is for the attention to follow the harmonic instrument in a piano trio, and there are undoubtedly spots here where a superlative operator like Davis grabs the ears. But she frequently undercuts that inclination with preparations which emphasize her keyboard’s percussive nature, evoking steel pans, thumb pianos, and gamelan orchestra. Such tactics gel winningly with McPherson’s rhythmic fragments and isolated drum textures, which he deploys with the sensitivity whetted during his sojourns with Andrew Hill and Fred Hersch. But interestingly in this unfettered context they assume a stark abstract dimension. Davis is also especially effective when she juxtaposes altered notes in one hand against untreated figures in the other, suggesting two separate, though telepathically linked, performers. Elsewhere her minimalist-variation-meets-sparkling-invention runs of clipped notes catch on reiterated figures, to variously build either tension or hypnotic meditation. Such is her skill that at times they coalesce into a hyper-speed blur which sounds like the pianistic equivalent of Evan Parker’s circular breathing.

With three such structure-loving improvisers, there’s always a cohesion to the on-the-fly negotiations, even on the more expansive cuts where focus organically pinballs around the group: Crump’s sturdy boned melodicism foregrounded one moment, Davis’ Cecil Taylor-like kernels the next. While some of the shorter selections mine a specific mood, such as the soothingly harmonious “Axolotl,” where the bassist’s bowing recalls Bach’s Cello Suites in its formal elegance, it is the long form pieces containing space to evolve that are a particular highlight. “Monotreme” and “Tree Shrimp,” which merge into one near half an hour extravaganza, pivot on a passage of playful off-the-cuff syncopation, and a terrific solo from McPherson in which the echoing and receding beats invoke dub reggae. “Echidna” presents a series of suitably spiky exchanges, while the final “Commerce Sunrise” conjures a loose groove, fueled by Crump’s impromptu riff, and some of Davis’ most rootsy work. Remarkably as Crump reveals in the liners, they went into the studio for half a day and everything they recorded is released. All hits. No misses.

Crump helms a stellar chamber sextet on Slow Water, a contemplative collection inspired by Erica Gies’ eye-opening yet hopeful polemic Water Always Wins. It comprises a dozen tracks which alternate between the leader’s through-composed charts and shorter more amorphous numbers, credited to Stephan Crump with the ensemble. While there is no further clarification, among the liner photos is a handwritten sheet which says: “Tune idea – breathe together as one giant multifaceted organism,” and there are at least a couple of pieces which might be the realization of this gambit of directed improvisation. It affirms that Crump’s conception informs the program, whether notation is involved or not.

To make his vision reality he has assembled a cast of adventurous NYC stalwarts who between them straddle the contemporary classical, jazz and improv scenes. The rich instrumental palette, two brass, three strings, and vibes, gives the opportunity for multiple lines, counter melodies, and varied combinations, pitching brass against strings for example in “Eager” and “Dusk Critters.” Crump avoids the limelight, sharing timekeeping duties when required with vibraphonist Patricia Brennan, though it is particularly the bassist who anchors the ensemble. Although this is primarily an ensemble music, trombonist Jacob Garchik and trumpeter Kenny Warren briefly flare in “Bogged,” though more often the individual contributions braid and fuse together. Notable among the many permutations Crump draws out from his crew is the lovely ...

It’s been a while since bassist Stephan Crump left the frequently knotty rhythmic matrices of the Vijay Iyer Trio following a twenty-year association. His output since then has been perhaps more considered than might have been imagined. Over the course of fourteen leadership dates, avoiding the obvious has become a hallmark of his practice, whether that be in the two guitar Rosetta Trio, in duet with Mary Halvorson, or the uncategorizable Planktonic Tales with saxophonist Ingrid Laubrock and pianist Cory Smythe.

Returning to the format in which he first came to prominence, Crump forms one third of the Borderlands Trio, alongside pianist Kris Davis and drummer Eric McPherson. The threesome reunites for its third release Rewilder, a double album of eight spontaneously generated pieces. Like its predecessors, it hovers between introspection and exuberance, with a tendency for the former which lends all the more weight to the latter when it arrives. A notably egalitarian outfit, the modus operandi is one of conversational flow in which everyone has their say, regularly starting spaciously with a keen consideration of detail and placement, maintained even as the density increases.

Often the temptation is for the attention to follow the harmonic instrument in a piano trio, and there are undoubtedly spots here where a superlative operator like Davis grabs the ears. But she frequently undercuts that inclination with preparations which emphasize her keyboard’s percussive nature, evoking steel pans, thumb pianos, and gamelan orchestra. Such tactics gel winningly with McPherson’s rhythmic fragments and isolated drum textures, which he deploys with the sensitivity whetted during his sojourns with Andrew Hill and Fred Hersch. But interestingly in this unfettered context they assume a stark abstract dimension. Davis is also especially effective when she juxtaposes altered notes in one hand against untreated figures in the other, suggesting two separate, though telepathically linked, performers. Elsewhere her minimalist-variation-meets-sparkling-invention runs of clipped notes catch on reiterated figures, to variously build either tension or hypnotic meditation. Such is her skill that at times they coalesce into a hyper-speed blur which sounds like the pianistic equivalent of Evan Parker’s circular breathing.

With three such structure-loving improvisers, there’s always a cohesion to the on-the-fly negotiations, even on the more expansive cuts where focus organically pinballs around the group: Crump’s sturdy boned melodicism foregrounded one moment, Davis’ Cecil Taylor-like kernels the next. While some of the shorter selections mine a specific mood, such as the soothingly harmonious “Axolotl,” where the bassist’s bowing recalls Bach’s Cello Suites in its formal elegance, it is the long form pieces containing space to evolve that are a particular highlight. “Monotreme” and “Tree Shrimp,” which merge into one near half an hour extravaganza, pivot on a passage of playful off-the-cuff syncopation, and a terrific solo from McPherson in which the echoing and receding beats invoke dub reggae. “Echidna” presents a series of suitably spiky exchanges, while the final “Commerce Sunrise” conjures a loose groove, fueled by Crump’s impromptu riff, and some of Davis’ most rootsy work. Remarkably as Crump reveals in the liners, they went into the studio for half a day and everything they recorded is released. All hits. No misses.

Crump helms a stellar chamber sextet on Slow Water, a contemplative collection inspired by Erica Gies’ eye-opening yet hopeful polemic Water Always Wins. It comprises a dozen tracks which alternate between the leader’s through-composed charts and shorter more amorphous numbers, credited to Stephan Crump with the ensemble. While there is no further clarification, among the liner photos is a handwritten sheet which says: “Tune idea – breathe together as one giant multifaceted organism,” and there are at least a couple of pieces which might be the realization of this gambit of directed improvisation. It affirms that Crump’s conception informs the program, whether notation is involved or not.

To make his vision reality he has assembled a cast of adventurous NYC stalwarts who between them straddle the contemporary classical, jazz and improv scenes. The rich instrumental palette, two brass, three strings, and vibes, gives the opportunity for multiple lines, counter melodies, and varied combinations, pitching brass against strings for example in “Eager” and “Dusk Critters.” Crump avoids the limelight, sharing timekeeping duties when required with vibraphonist Patricia Brennan, though it is particularly the bassist who anchors the ensemble. Although this is primarily an ensemble music, trombonist Jacob Garchik and trumpeter Kenny Warren briefly flare in “Bogged,” though more often the individual contributions braid and fuse together. Notable among the many permutations Crump draws out from his crew is the lovely ...