It sounds as warm and inviting now as it did in the early '70s, full of heart and inspired musicianship.
Stanley Clarke's debut, Children of Forever (1973), arrived quietly enough—a young bassist staking his claim in the jazz fusion world alongside some serious company. Chick Corea on keys, Lenny White on drums, Pat Martino on guitar, and vocalists Dee Dee Bridgewater and Andy Bey gave the session a lot of firepower, but this was Clarke's record to lose. What matters is that he didn't. The album holds up because Clarke had something to say beyond flashy technique. He could play fast and complex—fusion demanded that—but he also knew when to step back and let the songs breathe.
The real story here is longevity. When it came out, the album didn't become an immediate smash or a landmark that reshaped fusion overnight. It was solid, well-received, well-played. But it didn't vanish either. Thom Jurek, reviewing for AllMusic years later, noted that the album aged exceedingly well, sounding as warm and inviting in the early 21st century as it did when first released. That's saying something. A lot of fusion records from this era sound dated—slick, thin, chased by synthesizers and ego. This one sounds like people playing together, and you can hear it.
For anyone starting with Clarke, this makes sense. It's early in his career, so you hear him still building his voice rather than refining a fully formed one. The album sits at a good entry point: it's accessible enough to draw in curious listeners but serious enough that you're getting the real thing, not a simplified version. It's the kind of record that finds its audience slowly, generation by generation, which sometimes matters more than immediate success.