Ravishing sound.Stunning arrangements.
Impeccable playing.
But little more than sound and fury signifying nothing.
As I said in a previous review, James Carter may be the most prodigiously talented sax player on the planet--at least from a technical standpoint. Wielder of a handful of horns, possessor of astounding tonal and rhythmic gifts, able to wrench emotion from even the tritest phrase. Unfortunately, that doesn't necessarily add up to good jazz.
He certainly makes pompous jazz.
He certainly makes bombastic jazz.
He certainly makes virtuoso jazz.
Yet to me, it sounds like an empty shell.
Why?
It's all just too glib. It reminds me of a beautiful girl who flaunts her beauty without having integrated it into who she really is. Just so, Carter flaunts his technique without knowing who he really is. Is he David Murray? The Wynton Marsalis of the jazz woodwind family? The world's greatest--and most soulless--sax technician?
You tell me.
Maybe I'm all wet here, but I don't think so.
Memo to James Carter: Get a clue before you release another of these bloodless virtuoso discs.