DeJohnette doesn't just keep time here—he's leading a debate on what drums can actually say.
Jack DeJohnette made his name as a sideman, the guy making other bandleaders sound better. But The DeJohnette Complex is his statement as a leader, and it matters because it shows what he was actually thinking all those years behind the kit. This isn't a drum showcase album trying to prove technique—it's a working band trying to solve problems together. The rhythmic approach is restless, almost argumentative. DeJohnette's playing pushes forward when you expect restraint and pulls back when momentum seems inevitable. It keeps everyone honest.
The album sits at an interesting point in his career. He wasn't yet the elder statesman he'd become, but he'd already played with enough serious musicians to know what he wanted. The material mostly works, though not every track lands with the same weight. What matters is the clarity of purpose—these aren't standards lazily rearranged or vehicle pieces built around gimmicks. DeJohnette constructed songs that require the band to think, and you can hear them actually thinking, sometimes finding the answer and sometimes just living with the question.
If you're coming to DeJohnette's work for the first time, this probably isn't where to start—grab Bitches Brew or one of his later Blue Note records first. But once you know what he became, come back here. It's not his peak, but it's the blueprint. This is where he figured out that a drummer could be a composer without needing to write chord charts, that conversation matters more than virtuosity, and that the best rhythm section doesn't follow—it investigates.