A startling reinvention of Monk that proves his music still rewards adventurous reinterpretation.
By 2019, when Monks finally emerged, Sunny Murray had spent decades establishing himself as one of the most inventive drummers in free jazz—a player who could swing ferociously while dismantling the very concept of timekeeping. This album isn't a return to anything; it's an unexpected gift, a session recorded in 1996 that spent more than two decades in limbo due to corrupted master tapes. What makes it significant is that it catches three masters at precisely the right moment: Borah Bergman and Wilber Morris were deep into their own explorations of abstraction, and rather than treating Monk as sacred text, they treat him as a playground. The trio doesn't deconstruct his melodies so much as inhabit them sideways, finding angles nobody else has bothered to look for. Murray's drumming here is nothing short of revelatory—he's listening more than laying down time, his cymbals producing what one reviewer called "cymbal magic," while Bergman's crossed-hands approach on piano generates genuine disorientation in the best way. Morris anchors the chaos with a bassist's ear for structure even as the music spirals. Pierre Crépon of The New York City Jazz Record nailed it: this isn't formulaic homage. The trio moves through Monk's harmonic labyrinths with the freedom of conversation, never asking permission. It's the sound of musicians who've spent half their lives thinking about these tunes, suddenly deciding to say something new.