Four minutes of relentless fire music; the audience barely conceals a sharp intake of breath.
Bäbi drops you into a room where the air is already scorched. Milford Graves on drums and percussion plays like he's keeping step with something alive and dangerous, fluid and precise even as Arthur Doyle and Hugh Glover send their reeds into wild, strident eruptions. The first stretch is exhausting—relentless, free, the kind of thing that made fire music matter in the first place. Then Graves shifts into glossolalia, something almost incantatory, and you realize this isn't just noise; it's shaped, intentional, joyful even.
Recorded live in March 1976, Bäbi arrived at a moment when free jazz had started to calcify. By the mid-1970s, fire music had become a style with its own clichés, its own tired gestures. What makes this record essential is that Graves restores what had begun to harden back into something supple and alive. His drumming is the hinge—technically inventive without ever sounding studied, aggressive without ever losing grace. The horns catch that energy and match it, but the rhythm section is what keeps you listening through the chaos.
This is Graves in the thick of his own world, not a sideman moment but a leader fully in control. If you know him only from his early work or his later innovations in percussion design and tuning, Bäbi shows a different version: a drummer who could sit in the fire and make it swing.