Art Edmaiston & Chad Fowler: Memphis Mandala

Recorded live in Memphis, Memphis Mandala is led by Art Edmaiston on tenor and soprano saxophones, alongside Chad Fowler's work on stritch and flute. They are backed by a rhythm section that intuitively knows when to push the accelerator and when to let the engine idle in neutral. The result is collective improvisation—with two drummers—that feels less like a performance and more like five people arguing passionately about the meaning of life, only they are using horns and drums instead of words.

The first track, "Open the Gates," wastes no time announcing its intentions. Edmaiston's tenor strides in like a man who has just been told the local barbecue joint is closing in five minutes. Ra Kalam Bob Moses and Clifford Pee Wee Jackson answer with rolling toms as the ensemble wanders through disparate modal corners, dropping bluesy clusters whenever things threaten to drift too far into the ether. The track never quite settles; it simply decides the argument can continue tomorrow.

"Room for Three" surfaces as an invocation, shaped by call-and-response mini-motifs between Edmaiston and bassist Damon Smith. The quartet then surges into an amped-up bridge that highlights the drummers' buoyant rhythmic pathways and the saxophonist's seething dialogues—spiritual, free-flowing choruses that explore the horn's full register.

"Hear the Calls" begins with a hummable melody tucked inside the saxophonists' slightly-off-center alliance. Meanwhile, Moses and Jackson propel the music forward with lyrical drum patterns as the ensemble injects a playful undercurrent through lighthearted exchanges, forceful drumming and bowed bass groans.

"Last Glimpse and Final Exhalation" begins with Fowler's wistful lower-register flute lines floating over a quiet backdrop, punctuated by Moses' swerving gong textures. Edmaiston's incisive soprano lines cut through the dark undertow, adding tension without breaking the spell. Soon the horns erupt into what can only be described as sanctified wrestling. There is a Memphis holiness here—gospel fervor filtered through free-jazz circuitry. It is the musical equivalent of leaving church convinced you have been both judged and forgiven in the same breath.

What makes Memphis Mandala resonate is its complete lack of posture. No one is trying to sound profound; the musicians simply trust the moment and each other enough to let the music unfold. The result is free jazz that remembers where it came from—soul, gospel and the humid insistence of a Memphis summer—and refuses to let go.