When I think about ECM, I don’t really think about straight-ahead jazz. There’s a bunch of it there, sure, but the label’s reputation is for cold, almost pastoral music. You know, something with Jan Garberek on it, maybe joined by a choir.
But back in the day it was a pretty adventurous label. You had Keith Jarrett releasing album-long improvisations, early works by Steve Reich, the world music-informed jazz of Codona. This wasn’t Blue Note in the 60s, to be sure.
In 1977, ECM released Azimuth, a record featuring vocalist Norma Winstone, trumpeter Kenny Wheeler, and pianist John Taylor. Wheeler had relocated from Canada to become part of Britain’s jazz scene, where he played alongside guys like Tony Oxley and John Surman. Before long, he was working with Taylor, too: both appeared on The Trio’s 1971 record Conflagration. Somewhere around this time they started working with Winstone, too, who was making a name for herself as a free jazz vocalist. Her 1972 record Edge of Time featured all three.
While Edge of Time has its moments, it’s also very much of its time: the way the music builds up to a crash and the sense of a guided improvisation mark it as a free jazz record. I don’t think it’s a bad record, it’s just something that feels like it’s part of a scene.
But by the time all three were working together on Azimuth, they were going in a newer direction. They’d dispensed with a rhythm section, instead focusing on a trio of voice, trumpet, and piano. Occasionally they’d work in a flugelhorn or a synth, too. And instead of playing free, they seemed more inspired by the ambient works of Brian Eno, who’s 1975 record Another Green World showed another way forward. One that relied more on use of space, of letting notes linger in the air.
Azimuth opens with “Sirens’ Song,” a piece built around Taylor’s slowly building piano, Winstone’s gentle vocals and Wheeler’s horn. The music goes up and down, creating a bed for Taylor to overdub some light accents over. Meanwhile the way Wheeler’s horn and Winstone’s voice work in tandem, each complimenting the other, giving the piece an ethereal melody.
From there it’s into “O” which opens with a slow Taylor piano solo. His playing is sparse and you can hear each keystroke fade thanks to Manfred Eicher’s production. After a couple of minutes, Winstone enters with wordless vocals. Soon the pace picks up and Wheeler enters, doubling her lines. Then Taylor drops out, creating room for Winstone and Wheeler to play around each other, lines that twist and turn around each other.
The title track is key to this record, though. It opens with a soft, almost pulsating synth line, like something you’d hear in the background of a space station or in stock footage of old reel-to-reel computers at work. Winstone’s voice enters slowly, building in breathy lines that are layered on top of each other, gently forking into different directions. At about three and half minutes in, Wheeler enters with a bright, full tone on his horn. He plays short phrases, working around Winstone, and both seem like voices poking out of the ether. Meanwhile Taylor’s backing line slowly shifts and modulates, an unstable backing that keeps listeners on their toes. The performance here is stunning: it’s hypnotic and draws you in, but it’s never completely still. It moves and shifts, not too different from the way the theme in Music for 18 Musicians keeps changing. Meanwhile the way the two leads circle and dart around each other gives the piece a sense of freedom, that anything’s possible. It’s one of those tracks where when I cue it up, I know I’m listening to the whole 12 minutes.
Side two opens with “The Tunnel” and more of Taylor’s light touch on the piano. He plays a gentle lead, one that brings to mind Bill Evans in his more reflective moments. But before long, a gentle synth pattern enters under him and Winstone starts to sing. This time it’s lyrics: “There and back, it’s always black,” she sings. One gets the idea that the words matter less than the way she’s singing them, though, especially when she works in wordless vocals in between the lines.
Wheeler gets his turn to shine on “Greek Triangle,” a piece for multiple overdubbed horns. Several of them - I can hear at least three, myself - play their own lines, sometimes in unison, but at other times they oppose each other. Wheeler rockets up and down his horn like a sax player at times, hitting high screeching notes in rapid lines. The energy on this short piece is a nice contrast to the more ambient vibes elsewhere on this record.
Everyone’s back together for the album closer “Jacob.” It opens with more Evans-like playing from Taylor, who gets to stretch out for a couple of minutes. When Winstone enters, her vocals are layered to give them extra emphasis and a little more heft than she has elsewhere on this LP. The music slowly builds to a nice crescendo where all three are playing their own melodic lines that compliment each other - it never sounds cluttered or busy. And then things slowly fade out - the record ends with a small flourish by Taylor.
The thing about Azimuth is that the music here is timeless. By that I mean it’s not specifically tied to any moment in jazz/improvised music, although it certainly takes what it needs from various elements. At times, this trio sounds so future-facing that it’s hard to believe this record is 45 years old. With a total lack of a rhythm section, it's up to Taylor to keep both Winstone and Wheeler from completely soaring into the cosmos.
At times, I hear the beginnings of the current vaporwave scene in the way this music drifts and soars; at others, I can hear the classic ECM sound at work: spacious acoustics, lots of ambience, music that feels ambient but rewards close listening. Or in other words, Azimuth is a restless record: the music moves and shifts, occasionally bubbling up in a burst of energy. It’s like watching the ocean roll in from a high vantage point. Perhaps the cover, with a lighthouse surrounded by water, is on to something.
After this record’s release, this trio played a few shows together - according to the sixth edition of the Penguin Guide to Jazz, they’d play at least one show a year together. There’s a radio consent from 1978 available on bootleg circles that shows this group was compelling on stage, too. A couple more records would follow: The Touchstone in 1978 and Depart in 1980. Occasionally they’d get back together, too: there was an LP in 1985 and another in 1995. But as of this writing, all their records are out of print. Indeed, the only time Azimuth was even available on CD was a brief period in the mid-90s when there was a three-disc set of their early records.
The only way one can hear this record now is either on Spotify or to invest in a 70s vinyl copy. Neither are especially ideal, but I think Azimuth is a record that shouldn’t be forgotten. It captures that late 70s moment when ECM was willing to invest in uncommercial, experimental music. But more than that, it’s a record that’s compelling on its own terms and rewarding to people willing to track it down. I wish there was more stuff like this out there.