Tony Williams Lifetime: Tony Williams Lifetime Emergency! Reference: With John McLaughlin & Larry Young

Tony Williams was barely twenty-three when he put the Lifetime trio together in 1969, only five years past his stint as the engine of the Miles Davis Quintet. Emergency!, the group's sprawling doublealbum debut, paired Williams with organist Larry Young and a littleknown British guitarist named John McLaughlin, and the record still stands as one of the founding documents of jazzrock fusion—loud, unruly, ahead of where the rest of the music was standing. The original Polydor LP, mixed by Gene Radick and mastered by Lee Hulko, caught that ferocity on tape but never quite in the grooves; low end swallowed the drums, and the whole thing arrived compressed into something closer to sludge than three musicians clearly having the time of their lives.

The new thingamajig Reference: edition arrives under a series launched by Werner X. Uehlinger, the longtime curator whose Hat Hut / Hat Art / Hatology family of labels passed to Ezz-thetics after more than five decades of his stewardship. Mastering engineer Michael Brändli did the restoration and set against the 1969 pressing the gap is not subtle. Williams' drums, once smothered under tape hiss and organ bleed, now hit with real transient snap. His cymbal work—skittering, argumentative, never just keeping time—finally gets the room the LP never gave it. Young's Hammond pulls apart into distinct registers instead of one low howl, and McLaughlin's guitar sits up front without the digital harshness that dogged later reissues too.

The title track opens on a snare pattern Williams lets simmer before the trio detonates. McLaughlin answers in crunchy chords and blazing singlenote runs, Young's organ shoving back just as hard, the leader driving it all with explosive fills over a rocksolid 4/4—less an arrangement than a controlled collision with a backbeat. Already McLaughlin shows the trait that marks the next decade of his playing: lines fired off at a speed that seems to outrun the harmony under them, then a landing back on the beat as if none of it cost him anything.

"Beyond Games" brings the first of Williams' spoken passages, halfsung, halfmuttered over a loping, offkilter groove. It remains a taste some listeners never acquire, and the drummer was clearly unbothered by that fact, but the new master lets the vocal sit in the mix instead of fighting the band around it, which alone makes the eccentricity read as choice rather than accident. Williams talks his way through "Where" as well, a murmured verse breaking without warning into a furious instrumental run, and again in a smaller dose on "Via The Spectrum Road."

"Vashkar," a Carla Bley tune, gives McLaughlin his longest stretch of solo space, and the speed of his runs borders on unreasonable, each note distinct where the original pressing blurred them into static. "Sangria For Three" and closer "Something Spiritual" slow the pace, Young carrying the harmony while Williams, for once, holds back.

The 1969 LP sounded like a fight recorded from the next room, three musicians throwing punches through plaster. Brändli's remaster tears the wall down. Nothing about the performance has changed; everything about hearing it has.