Motian's drumming is the spine that holds these sessions together, restraint meeting precision.
What makes this album work is Paul Motian. On the 1964 session, his drumming defines the sound — he's not filling space or pushing tempo, but anchoring it, leaving room for Paul Bley and Gary Peacock to breathe. Motian had a gift for playing around silence rather than against it, and that approach suits this music perfectly. The trio never rushes. There's a patience here that feels deliberate, almost meditative, which is rare in piano trios of that era.
The 1968 session, with Billy Elgart on drums, shifts the character entirely. Elgart brings a sharper, more driving energy, and you can hear the difference immediately. Both approaches work, but they're unmistakably different records stitched into one. The AllMusic reviewer David R. Adler noted the "curiously straight-ahead, tempo-driven feel," which is fair — this isn't abstraction for its own sake. The sound is brittle and lo-fi by design or circumstance, but it has weight.
This sits awkwardly in Bley's catalog: not early enough to be a debut statement, not late enough to be a summary. The Penguin Guide to Jazz observed that much of the trio's best work "seems to have gone unrecorded" up until that point, which says something about how much material existed outside the studio. This album finally documents what they could do together, and what emerges is a working trio in real time, not a showcase.