Crawford grew up steeped in the tradition, and it shows every time he sits down at the keys. His touch is rooted in the hard bop and soul jazz vocabulary — think Red Garland, think Junior Mance — but he wears it naturally rather than as a costume. He doesn't announce his influences. They just show up, comfortable and lived-in, the way a really good cook uses spices without making a show of it.

His reputation was built largely in the accompanist's chair, which is both a compliment and, for most audiences, the reason they don't know his name yet. Playing behind vocalists demands a particular kind of intelligence — you have to support without crowding, comp without commenting too loudly, leave space without going absent. Crawford does all of that with a ease that can make it look easy. It isn't.

As a leader, Crawford gets to open up a bit more, and the results are genuinely enjoyable. His records as a frontman pull from the same hard bop and soul jazz well but let him stretch harmonically in ways that his sideman gigs don't always allow. The trio settings suit him especially well — he's a natural conversationalist at the piano, and a good drummer and bassist bring out the best in him.

What you'll actually hear when you press play: crisp, rolling lines in the right hand, a solid and swinging left hand, and an overall feeling that the music is in control without being uptight. Crawford doesn't chase modern abstraction. He is perfectly happy making something that feels good to listen to, and there's more craft in that than people sometimes admit.

He's not trying to reinvent anything. He's trying to play beautifully and swing hard and serve the music, and on a good night he does all three at once. That's enough.