By Brian Earley
Swiss born drummer/percussionist Florian Arbenz has spent much of his time
in the post-pandemic years working to join peoples of different ages,
cultures, and genres together. His Conversation LAB, which serves
as the philosophical groundwork of this release, posits “respect,” for
“diversity and a spirit of togetherness, both in music and in society,”
ideals that have become all but illegal in the United States in 2026, as
well as in some parts of Europe, Asia, and South America. Here in the United
States, our administration just proposed new laws that would financially
punish secondary schools and universities if they “provide targeted support
to minority students” according to a USA Todayreport, and even bike
lanes have been officially assailed as supporting diversity and equity too
much, a statement which sounds laughable until one sees that this logic
stripped away over one billion dollars of funding.
The voice of Arbenz and other active artists are needed at this moment more
than ever in my lifetime. And, for this project Florian Arbenz, who hails
from Basel, Switzerland, has brought together guitarist Bill Frisell, a
white man from Denver by way of Baltimore, with saxophonist Greg Osby, a
black man from St. Louis. There should be nothing radical about this, and we
cannot allow our bars of social expectation to sink so low that this seems a
departure from normalcy. It is not 1960, but even in that year it should
not have been an act of moral resistance for Dave Brubeck to refuse to tour
without bassist Eugene Wright.
For this lovely album Arbenz utilizes lessons he learned in Havana, Cuba
years ago, and, to a lesser extent on this particular project, rhythmic
techniques from Western Asia and India. Quiet Lights opens with a
“rhumba-inspired” song penned by Arbenz titled “Homenaje.” There is so much
peace in this work, that I have found myself listening to its at times
longingly sad, at times soaringly optimistic, timbre over and over. The work
begins with Arbenz playing a complicated rhythmic pattern on drum-kit and
custom-made percussion tools. As is common throughout the album, Arbez does
not abandon time, but he doesn’t exactly play it metronomically either,
instead opening up percussive and rhythmic air that allow Osby and Frisell
to sail like a breeze through the upper stories of a temple. The four minute
mark on this piece, for example, contains so much human-musical information
that, if for only a moment, joy is alive and manifest.
There are several other highlights on this album. One is found in the
second song, “Chant.” This, like every other piece on the album save one,
is again composed by Arbenz, who claims he is “inspired by Max Roach’s
vision of the drummer as composer.” “Chant” commits one of the drummer’s
most radical moves as a percussionist: his drums are barely audible as he
allows Osby’s floating saxophone and Frisell’s ethereal legato guitar to
fill the room. “Lueget vo Berg und Tal,” a traditional Swiss song, again
features cymbals and bells played with quiet intimacy as Frisell drifts in
liquid time.
The closer “Rhumba” features more kinetic and energetic drumming from
Arbenz. Here, he creates an array of rhythmic templates that Osby and
Frisell collectively use as a counterpoint to their own adventurous
improvisations. Arbenz has stated that the Conversation LAB
approach, while using form and clarity, should focus on spontaneous creation
and the musicians should be “authentic” and “truly unique.” “Rhumba”
perhaps demonstrates this concept more completely than any other part of the
recording.
In closing I will say the silent part out loud. I am well aware that Greg
Osby is a divisive musician for readers of the FJC. Frisell and Arbenz are
also names that one does not immediately associate with free jazz. However,
while portions of this album are clearly in the pocket, all three creators
work in beautiful moments full of impromptu colorations and communal
development. There are no overdubs whatsoever. Nearly every track is a
first take, and the entire album was recorded in four hours one afternoon in
September. There is something reassuring, calming even, about the close
listening and spontaneous responses of the musicians here. I might even add
the word hopeful. Quiet Lights is, at the very least,
worth an open-minded listen.
One can listen to Quiet Lights here:
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