There has been plenty of dialog recently among jazz critics and artists about the music losing its feeling, soul, and connection to audiences because it has become too academic or too focused on technique. The problems with this argument are various, including the sense that we’ve heard it all before — from swing stalwarts who thought bebop was all chatter, from critics who found the 1960s avant-garde to be unfriendly to listeners and therefore inward-facing, and lately from a chorus of revered masters who worry that “jazz” musicians trained in music schools no longer play with appeal to regular listeners or a sense of feeling.
In many ways, the latest recording by bassist and composer Stephan Crump answers these critics while also making their case. Crump’s enterprise on Slow Water is the creation of 67 minutes of continuous music that combines chamber textures and through-written pieces with settings for improvisation that are distinctly exploratory, almost entirely outside the swing/blues/bebop realm of classic jazz. But to accuse this mostly compelling music of being devoid of emotion or feeling would be an abdication of one’s hearing and heart.
Stephan Crump grew up in Memphis near the Mississippi River, and this record acts as a commentary on the state of water in 2024, informed by environmental worries and the artist’s reflection on Water Always Wins, an optimistic take on the topic by science writer Erica Gies. That is, then, a form of programmatic music that recreates some of the motion and story of water through a sextet of musicians: Patricia Brennan’s shimmering vibes, three strings (Crump, Joanna Mattrey’s viola, and yuniya edi kwon on violin), and two brass (trombonist Jacob Garchik and trumpeter Kenny Warren). The program roughly toggles between mostly composed sections that use a wide variety of styles and idioms and interludes that combine loose musical sketches, inviting free improvisation.
“Hyporheic” begins with pointillistic free playing that evolves into a set of longer, harmonized drones over which Brennan moves like a sprinkle. My ears are invited to hear it as a gradual accumulation of rainwater, water pooling — and sure enough, a “hyporheic zone” is “the region of sediment and porous space beneath and alongside a stream bed, where there is the mixing of shallow groundwater and surface water”. This interlude flows out of “Eager”, a spare composition that initially places harmonized brass with a Duke Ellington touch atop a harmonically static bass line, then moves the melody to harmonized strings and vibes — a sunlit piece of composed joy. The pooling rainwater leads into the through-composed “Dusk Critters”, a jagged, syncopated exercise for the full band that, in its last minute, becomes a sensual ballad with a gentle throb.
As you work through the 16 different tracks, connections and contrasts abound. “Sediment and Flow” is a fast, busy improvisation with skittering strings and sputtering brass that mellows into flowing, harmonized tones that wind down to silence. The next piece, “Outflow”, begins with the sounds of wind (breathing through brass?) as a set-up for a meditative bass line that becomes the center of an atmosphere of written background figures for all the players. The sequence, perhaps, suggests renewal, dawn, an awakening.
“Pneaumatifore” also features an airy sound — relating to the word, which is part of an aquatic plant that absorbs oxygen — which opens up into “Euphotic” (relating to the upper part of a body of water where plants live or float?). This composed piece is buoyant with a bouncing bass line across just a couple of chords that support a childlike set of brass/string figures that punch upward and surprise as they develop into fun, partly dissonant counterpoint.
Careful listeners will be rewarded a thousand times over, as Stephan Crump’s writing is rich in clarity. That may be chamber music of the “New Jazz” variety, with only a little groove and slices of atonality, but the ensemble is uncrowded and transparent. Every delicious rubbing of harmony is thrilling on Slow Water, and the open space rewards the imaginations of the improvisers. More often than not, Crump allows himself the role of anchor — underpinning the flow and harmony as bass players traditionally do. On “Bend”, we can hear every voice precisely, and Crump keeps it all sounding pretty as he nudges the harmonies along. Here, as in so many places across the hour of music, the writing for the brass and strings is breathtaking.
No, it’s not the jazz that will reignite popular interest in the form. Maybe it’s not “jazz” at all. This is the kind of genial but high art that American creative music has been for decades, shifting as it attains equal footing with (and borrows strengths from) “classical” music. But as you hear the brass and strings mix it up on “Bend”, the lineage is clear: this music is historically connected to Charles Mingus and Duke Ellington, Henry Threadgill and John Coltrane. Stravinsky too? I hope so.
There’s not a thing wrong with that. More importantly, it reflects the feelings and ideas of Stephan Crump, with all his competing and complementary influences. It happens to be both daring and beautiful.