Taylor shows his affection for Dixon by playing more in the trumpeter's musical world.
In July 1992, Cecil Taylor and Bill Dixon walked into La Masterbox studios in Villeurbanne, France without a plan. They had not rehearsed, had not discussed what they would play, had agreed on nothing. Their last studio meeting was 1966, when they made Conquistador!. Now, after twenty-six years, they simply started playing. The opening track begins so quietly you might miss it—three minutes of careful exploration before Dixon suddenly unleashes a high trumpet blast that breaks the peace. It's a shock, and that shock is the whole point. This is what happens when two musicians of this stature trust listening more than talking.
Taylor typically demanded that collaborators meet him on his own terms, but here something shifts. Dixon played with space, let things unfold gradually, avoided overwhelming force. Taylor answers this approach rather than steamroll it. Listen to how often he sounds like a supporting voice instead of the maestro commanding the room. Yet he never disappears. When he wants to take control, he does—sudden dazzling runs on piano, explosive passages that remind you why he was never anyone's sideman. The two men orbit each other, sometimes in sync, sometimes in deliberate friction, always listening hard.
This was a limited pressing, released only in 2019 as a double LP. It's not a major work in either man's catalog, and it's not easy listening. But it documents something rare: two uncompromising artists in their seventies, meeting without safety nets, and finding genuine conversation. No rehearsal meant no pretense. What you hear is exactly what they chose to play.