Graves hitting so hard he's almost overloading the tape, Doyle shrieking at full power, never easing off.
By 1976, Milford Graves was already a force—a percussionist who had spent years developing his own rhythmic language, one that didn't follow the standard swing template. Children of the Forest captures him at his most uncompromising, recorded in his basement laboratory in Queens with saxophonist Arthur Doyle and Hugh Glover, months before they would record together again for Bäbi. This is Graves on his own terms, in his own space, with no commercial expectation or label oversight.
What you hear is exactly what Phil Freeman of Stereogum described: wild shit. Graves attacks the drums with polyrhythmic ferocity, layering patterns that seem to multiply rather than resolve. Doyle responds not with melody but with shrieking and howling saxophone—post-Coltrane and post-Ayler fire music that asks, as NPR's Daniel A. Brown put it, "How free do you truly want to be?" There's no compromise here, no moment where the music softens or lets you off the hook. The tape itself seems to strain under the force of it.
This is not Graves flexing in a studio or trying to prove something to a critic. This is documentation of what he was actually doing in 1976—making music that felt necessary, that pushed against every boundary it encountered. The fact that it sat unreleased for nearly fifty years before Black Editions Archive issued it as a vinyl double LP in 2023 says something about how little space there was for this kind of unmediated intensity in the jazz world, then or now. AllMusic gave it four stars, which feels about right for something this raw and this refusal to compromise.