Threadgill's melodies have a shamanistic air, a residue of folk magic that ties them together.
The nonet itself is the star here. Henry Threadgill assembled nine musicians—three saxophonists and flutists, four bassists, and a vocalist—in a configuration that had no precedent and probably no successor. This was not an orchestra or a big band in any traditional sense. It was a deliberate constraint, a compositional puzzle: how do you write for four bassists without it becoming a sludge? How do you let three horn players breathe without chaos?
Joseph Jarman on soprano and Douglas Ewart on bass clarinet anchored the horn section alongside Threadgill's alto. What emerges on these four pieces is chamber music pretending to be folk ritual. Threadgill's melodies do exactly what DownBeat's Neil Tesser heard—they move with shamanic intention, pulling the nonet through pieces that feel both arranged and inevitable. The four bassists (Fred Hopkins, Rufus Reid, Brian Smith, Leonard Smith) don't rumble underneath; they become texture, sometimes almost melodic themselves, creating a bottom that's dense without being heavy.
This is Threadgill early, before Air, before the Sextett. AllMusic's Brian Olewnick nailed it: this album is the missing link between those projects. It vanished from the catalog for decades—unreleased on disc well into the 2000s—which means most listeners never heard how fully formed his vision already was. The arrangements show genuine sophistication, and the restraint matters. Threadgill doesn't overcomplicate. He lets the nonet do the work.