Jakob Bro – Returnings

2546 X“Just when I thought I was out … they pull me back in.” Godfather III

Sweet fuck, this album is good.

Today was one of those days when music wasn’t hitting me. It’s just one of those days after a family event when you’re just fucking tired. Beat. Done. Just … fuck it. Fuck you. No, it’s not fuck you, it’s fuck me. Ya, fuck me, man. And fuck this. Then I go sit on my favourite chair and shuffle through lists and peer through albums and, even though there is talent and work just bursting out at me, not just decades but fucking centuries of genius waiting to be heard, some for the very first time, all that could come out of my face was “meh”. Then, like a siren’s song this album pulled me in. It was faint, delicate, sensitive, and felt. And as always, please don’t disregard a sound for its genre name. Give it a chance. A rose would still be a rose even if it was called something like … oh, I don’t know, jazz. 

For those few, I can’t help but hear Paul Motian trio on this bitch. And even though this might be called “free jazz” it’s not chaos. It’s not that annoying shit people put on to seem all smart and shit or, god-help-me-this-is-so-lame, “with it”. Most of the time you barely notice the album is on. It doesn’t need to scream for attention to be heard. It’s an album to put on after all that fucking mess we each have to deal with. (Love ’em. Hate ’em. Family can be draining as all hell.) It allows you to settle back into yourself. It gives you room to breathe. You don’t need to know shit about jazz or charts to get it. It just creates a mood that eases and bathes in its tones.

Jakob Bro is the guitarist. Palle Mikkelborg is the trumpeter. Thomas Morgan is the bassist. Jon Christensen is the drummer. These guys are really, really, good at what they do. Each one of these motherfuckers seems better than the one before. I can’t choose a favourite. It’s as if these guys know how to play water. They could listen to rain sprinkling on a roof, a river flowing, and the calm relief of hot water, and somehow turn it into sound. There are no lyrics to get in the way. You just listen. That’s it. That’s all. And it’s fucking perfect. My advice? Turn down the lights, turn on the album, and just melt into your favourite chair. Hey? Guess what Easter? Go fuck yourself with a candied egg. 


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