A solo piano record that rewrote what solo piano records could sound like.
There is no one else on Avenging Angel (2010). Just Craig Taborn and the piano, recorded across thirteen pieces that feel less like a collection and more like a single thought interrupted and resumed. This is the record to start with if you want to understand Taborn — not because it's his most approachable work, but because it reveals what he actually cares about: space, silence, and the weight of individual notes.
Taborn had been active for years before this, playing in groups, collaborating, absorbing influences. But Avenging Angel is where he stepped into the room alone and asked what a piano could say when nobody else was listening. The Los Angeles Times noticed immediately: the album is "unlike any other of its kind. Often hushed and spacious where many musicians will opt for a maximalist approach." AllMusic reviewer Thom Jurek called it "a major contribution to the actual language of the piano as an improvisational instrument," praising its economy and vision. The Guardian gave it four stars. This wasn't a novelty or an exercise — critics recognized something substantial happening here.
If you've heard Taborn in ensembles, you might expect something busier, more demonstrative. Instead, Avenging Angel is deliberate and sparse. It's the sound of someone who knows exactly when to play and when to let the piano breathe. This is where to begin because everything else Taborn does builds from or moves away from the clarity he found in this solitude.