There is no 1:1 match between the word “sadness” and the feeling of teetering on the abyss. And So It Is, saxophonist Aaron Shaw’s debut album, attempts to sidestep this gap: to articulate the inarticulable when words come up short. The Los Angeles jazz musician crafted the record in the aftermath of a harrowing medical diagnosis of bone marrow failure, and the resulting music pulls at these threads of isolation, embodiment, and meaning-making, weaving and reweaving what it means to peer into the void. Alternately desolate and joyful, serene and psychedelic, the record is part astral journey and part inner reckoning, intent on blowing the cobwebs out of illness and grief’s dustiest corners.
Shaw’s tenor saxophone has the affect of a vital organ—something pulsing unconsciously underneath the more willful mechanics of a body (or in this case, band) in motion. Here, that body includes an array of West Coast jazz heavyweights, including Carlos Niño on percussion; Nate Mercereau on guitar, percussion, and wind; and Sam Reid and Jamael Dean, both on piano. They initiate us into Shaw’s galactic school of existentialism on opener “Soul Journey” where, halfway through, a chime-laden intro locks into a tight groove. It’s the first instance of a push-pull dynamic that recurs throughout the record. Shaw toggles between mysticism and toe-tapping rhythm, between experimentation and predictability, his songs inclined both to meander into the unknown and to return to melody. The playful, syncopated piano riff at the midpoint of “Windows to the Soul” sounds impish, like a cat tiptoeing towards a fishbowl—then, a minute later, it’s tumbling up and down the scale, barely anchored by the sturdy chords in the background. The track is focused but ruminative, mirroring the circular way thoughts orbit an obsession. All the while, Shaw keeps the unhurried pace of someone willing to let the universe unfurl, like a monk in walking meditation.
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That deliberation pays dividends on tracks like “Heart of a Phoenix.” The nearly 10-minute track is one of the record’s standouts, an epic whose pace offers the listener time to walk alongside the gravity of mortality. Is that panic, when the flute trills high? When Dwight Trible’s guttural voice enters just after, is it catharsis or plea? By the time the drums snap to attention a minute later, we’re moving towards something urgent—the dolor of “It Never Entered My Mind” meeting the queasy anxiety of an atomic countdown clock. Is it the finitude of time that’s driving this frenzy? Or is it just Shaw’s awareness that time is there, and that it’s been there all along?
There are moments where the album’s tone skews leaden, where Shaw positions us right on the edge of despair. “Echoes of the Heart” is as wistful and cinematic as Angelo Badalamenti’s score for Twin Peaks, and comes similarly close to horror. Dissonant chords are overlaid with misty reverberation. Baleful flute closes the song unadorned, alone. The intimacy between Shaw and the listener feels visceral—when the mist parts, we see the specter of loneliness.
