Satoko Fujii Quartet: Burning Wick

Few pianists alive match the relentless invention of Satoko Fujii. Born in Tokyo in 1958, she trained classically before studying jazz at Berklee and the New England Conservatory under mentors such as Paul Bley and Ran Blake. Since the 1990s she has released more than 100 albums, often marking her birthday with a new project that might drift toward meditative stillness or erupt into full-tilt big-band turbulence. The Quartet on Burning Wick—Fujii (piano), Natsuki Tamura (trumpet), Takeharu Hayakawa (bass) and Tatsuya Yoshida (drums)—first stormed stages in 2001, then scattered, regrouped and returned after a very long pause. The result is nine tracks of tightly focused combustion.

Recorded with ferocious clarity, Burning Wick gets straight to business. The opener "Solar Orbit" starts with Fujii's sparse ringing chords that slowly flare outward, as if she is coaxing the sun to misbehave. Hayakawa's bass throbs beneath the surface while Yoshida pelts the kit like he is dodging cosmic debris. What begins in a hush turns into a white-hot ascent that drags the cosmos right to your doorstep. Tamura's prophetic lines slice through the swarming cymbals, and the punishing unisons add enough weight to tilt the room. When Fujii takes an extended solo eight minutes in, the piece tilts into a freeform bluesy swagger that feels both improbable and entirely preordained.

"Rain in the Wee Small Hours" slides into a medium-tempo jazz vamp, tinted with bluesy edges and a restless undercurrent. Fujii drops staggered voicings like slow midnight drizzle while Tamura answers with smoky splinters of melody. The mood hovers between refreshed and faintly heartbroken. After a long piano intro the band snaps into sharp prog-rock unisons driven by a rhythm section that hits from every conceivable angle. Hayakawa's bass solo sprawls across the tune like a cartographer gone rogue before the group charges back in for another volley of choruses and quick-fire exchanges.

Then there is the mischievous "Mountain Gnome," which barges in on brash trumpet lines and a knowing wink. Fujii darts across the keys while three of the musicians' yodel between bursts of wordless chant. Hayakawa's bass twists like a root trying to wriggle out of the ground. In just over seven minutes the quartet turns free improvisation into a folk dance for imaginary sprites. Call it chaos that has learned which fork to use.

Burning Wick is not background music and never pretends to be. It is the sound of four seasoned alchemists turning rust into gold-plated thunder, then handing you the torch with a dare in their eyes. Fujii and company are fully ablaze here, and this reunion feels less like a nostalgic spark and more like a brand-new conflagration, one that refuses to cool off anytime

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