Ivo Perelman & Matthew Shipp String Trio: Armageddon Flower

Imagine our earliest ancestors huddled deep inside a cave, safe from the howling wind and stalking predators outside. A fire flickers at the center, casting erratic shadows onto the jagged walls. Among the tribe, someone watches those shadows—not with fear, but with imagination. Perhaps they see, in the dancing silhouettes, the outlines of animals hunted earlier that day. This individual reaches out, dips a crude brush in pigment and begins to trace the forms on stone. In that moment, a leap occurs—not just artistic, but cognitive and communal. This is the birth of symbolic thought, the convergence of art, language and human connection.

Fast forward some 64,000 years. Language has evolved into sophisticated systems, music is governed by theory, notation and tradition. But has it really become fully codified? Or do some artists still tap into that primal space—where communication transcends structure, and the imagination guides the hand (or the ear)?

For saxophonist Ivo Perelman, the answer is clear. For more than 25 years, Perelman's artistic process has defied convention. His approach to recording is radically unorthodox: no scores, no charts, not even discussion before the red light goes on. He steps into the studio and simply begins—trusting in instinct, trusting in his collaborators, and perhaps most importantly, trusting in the moment. It is an act not unlike that first mark on a cave wall: spontaneous, visionary and deeply human.

On Armageddon Flower, Perelman assembles a group of master improvisers who share his instinctive, exploratory approach. The project merges two existing musical relationships: his long-running duo with pianist Matthew Shipp, and Shipp's own string trio with violist Mat Maneri and bassist William Parker. The latter ensemble has released several standout recordings, with Symbolic Reality (RogueArt, 2019) being the previous. Bringing these units together into a quartet feels less like a formal arrangement and more like a natural convergence—something fated, inevitable.

Like the earliest human artworks, this music does not offer explanations—it invites engagement. The pieces unfold not as fixed compositions but as evolving conversations. While there are solos, such as Parker's beautifully centered moment halfway through the 21-minute journey that is "Tree of Life," the focus here is less on individual displays and more on collective exploration. The improvisation is not an exercise in chaos, but in communion—each player responding to, amplifying and transforming the others' ideas.

"Pillar of Light" exemplifies this connection. It is as if the quartet operates as a single organism, four oarsmen rowing in rhythmic unison, their sound levitating and propelling itself forward. Shipp, the sole chordal voice, never dominates; his piano is in constant, dynamic dialogue with Perelman's tenor, Maneri's microtonal violin lines and Parker's resonant bass. The music floats, dances and breathes—an elegant negotiation between motion and stillness.

The title track, "Armageddon Flower," begins with martial precision. Shipp's piano functions like a piston, driving a steady march, while Perelman and Maneri layer plaintive, nearly vocal melodies above. But the mechanical energy gives way to something more organic—a reshaping of momentum into conversation. The music dissolves the rigid into the fluid, the procedural into the poetic. No one asserts dominance; instead, each voice listens, adapts and supports. It is chamber music reimagined through the lens of fearless improvisation.

Throughout the album, the quartet achieves something rare: they balance abstraction with emotional directness. The music never panders, never simplifies—but it always communicates. It hums with a kind of shared intuition, as though these players are tapping into something older than genre or training—perhaps even older than music itself.

Armageddon Flower is a sound painting that evolves in real time. A meditation on spontaneity, unity and expression. In its openness, its refusal to impose order where none is needed, it echoes that distant ancestor painting animals on a cave wall. Both acts—ancient and modern —are driven by the same impulse: to capture what is fleeting, to express what is felt and to connect through something beyond words.

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