Saxophonist and visual artist Ivo Perelman is incredibly prolific — odds are, between the time I finish writing this review and the time you read it, he will have already recorded at least a couple of new discs. His “obsession with the studio,” as frequent collaborator and pianist Matthew Shipp has put it, resulted in five releases last year, down from a seeming peak of twelve in 2017. Perelman’s oeuvre, however, reminds me of something guitarist Joe Morris said about reedist-composer Anthony Braxton: he pours out so much at once because he wants to be sure there is enough material for his point to get across, and that no dialogic stone is left unturned, no possibility unexplored or not least hinted at, no matter how ineffable the content (as it is in this case). Perelman is a player whose incredibly rich application of tonal resources, register bends and quavers gives him a liquid acuity wherein his tenor at times sounds more like a stritch or c-melody horn. In the thirty-two years since he first stepped out as a leader, Perelman’s approach has shifted from a strong post-Albert Ayler tenor acolyte to a mathematical sound-searcher who doles out his queries in drips and drabs.
Perelman and Shipp began collaborating in 1996, their first album a duo CD on Cadence Jazz Records entitled Bendito of Santa Cruz; shortly thereafter they added bassist William Parker to form a trio, releasing Cama de Terra as part of Homestead’s short-lived free music series (curated by Steven Joerg and a precursor to AUM Fidelity). Since that time they’ve worked together regularly, especially often in the last decade. In that time they’ve cut no fewer than ten duet albums (including one four-disc and one thee-disc boxed set), most of which were released by Leo Records. Amalgam, their latest collaboration, has just been released digitally by young imprint Mahakala Music, and it consists of twelve freely improvised vignettes. In two and a half decades, both musicians’ language has changed, even if the basic tools remain the same — massive chord clusters, fleet runs, and upper-register saxophone squall have all become drizzled, airy gestures, refined in their detail and direct clarity. Shipp’s playing nods more outwardly in the direction of post-bop romanticism, but not without a rough scumble underneath and around, as Perelman’s gait is a latticework of silvery pillows and stippled brays. Though the pair have certainly worked often with a variety of rhythm players, their colorful dances, intertwined and parallel, do not leave the listener wanting for a drummer or bassist; rather, Perelman and Shipp create a sonic enmeshment that continually points outward.
Live in Nuremberg, released on CD late last year by SMP (pianist Hannes Selig’s label), is a slightly different story, a live recording that contains a single 55-minute improvisation and a brief encore. The recording is a bit fuller than on Amalgam, and the stretching room afforded in a concert setting makes the Shipp-Perelman conversation a bit rangier and more declamatory, in fact in some passages are downright fierce. The force of Shipp’s clusters in person can be overwhelming, and there are moments when he pushes the recording equipment into the red with warm, buzzing distortion as rivulets congeal into bricks of light. Perelman’s twists and blats, rendered with the close clicking of pads and fingers and punctuated by the occasional vocal shout, are as tangible as hot breath in the ears. It isn’t often that a modern recording, even a live set, sounds like one is actually sharing literal space with the artists; it’s partly the physicality of the presentation and the detail, but it is also attributable to the barely-contained abandon and willful dives into unexpected paths that a quality concert document evinces.
Going back to Bendito of Santa Cruz (now out of print) is a treat; the session consists of two Perelman originals and eight adaptations of Brazilian folk songs. The saxophonist takes a very gravelly approach here, his studies with Marty Krystall and sonic allegiance to Ayler and Charles Gayle are apparent and his phrases consist of worrying yelps and dogged, anthemic squall against the chunky bash of Shipp’s piano. That’s not to say that the recording doesn’t presage some of their later work; “Anglo” gets into taffy-like elongated runs and twirls against glassine particulates of keyboard sound, but the clarity of each musician together and apart is resoundingly blunt, rather than ethereal. One can hear that Perelman’s brays, while not yet splintered into torqued partials, are part of a search beyond what his blueprints laid out at the time. Ultimately, while focused on toe-tapping themes from Perelman’s upbringing, in which Shipp’s role often embarks from Mal Waldron-like vamps, the ferocity of improvisation and immediacy of intent is what makes Bendito of Santa Cruz one of the finest and most telling statements in the saxophonist’s early discography.
