Taylor's piano cuts through the ensemble like a blade, urgent and unstoppable.
Berlin, November 1989. Cecil Taylor arrived with Harald Kimmig on guitar, Muneer Abdul Fataah on bass, William Parker on cello, and Tony Oxley on drums—an unusual front line for Taylor, built more on strings than the horns he'd favored for decades. The grouping mattered. Without saxophone or trumpet to compete with his left hand, Taylor had room to build architecture; the ensemble had to listen harder, move faster, stay alert. What emerged across those two nights was sharp and combative in the best way, nothing soft or exploratory for its own sake.
Taylor's playing here is characteristically dense—fast runs, unexpected silences, blocks of dissonance that land like deliberate provocation. But the real interest is watching how the quintet responds. Kimmig and Parker don't try to match Taylor's velocity; they anchor and push back. Oxley drives without settling into time. The music never settles, never coddles. It's working music, made by musicians who understood that Taylor's world demanded total commitment or nothing at all.
This isn't Taylor's best-known work. Serious collectors know Looking (Berlin Version) Corona (1989) as a solid late-period entry—one of many FMP recordings he made in those years—but rarely as a place to start. That's fair. It rewards listening if you already trust Taylor's aesthetic. The Penguin Guide gave it 3.5 stars, and AllMusic reviewer Brian Olewnick called it "quite enjoyable" for the committed aficionado, which amounts to a real compliment in that context. Not every session needs to be essential.