Brahem steps into the ensemble world, trading intimacy for architecture.
By 1995, Anouar Brahem had already established himself as a singular voice on the oud — restrained, spacious, drawn to silence as much as sound. Khomsa represents a crucial shift: his first real engagement with a large ensemble, and the most overtly Western in instrumentation of his career to that point. This is not a departure that abandons what came before, but it does mark a threshold. The oud no longer dominates by default. Instead, Brahem composes for voices — Richard Galliano's accordion, François Couturier's piano, Jean Marc Larché's saxophone — as equals in the conversation.
The septet allows for a kind of architectural thinking that solos and duets cannot. Textures pile and recede. The rhythm section of Palle Danielsson and Jon Christensen anchors without rushing, and Béchir Selmi's violin adds a third melodic line that can challenge or echo the oud's phrasing. The album was recorded in September 1994 and carries the clarity and deliberation that ECM recordings are known for — every sound in the right place, nothing wasted.
This is not Brahem's most accessible record or his most celebrated. But it marks the moment when he stopped being a soloist who occasionally played with others and became a composer interested in ensemble orchestration. For listeners already comfortable with his aesthetic, it opens new questions about what his music could accommodate. For newcomers, Khomsa is not the best entry point — start with something more intimate first — but it rewards attention, especially if you want to understand how his thinking evolved.