Mal Waldron - 2002 - One More Time

 

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One More Time carries the quiet gravity of a final statement without presenting itself as a farewell. Recorded during the last year of Mal Waldron’s life, the album brings the pianist together with bassist Jean-Jacques Avenel and, on selected pieces, soprano saxophonist Steve Lacy. These were not new associations assembled for ceremonial purposes. Waldron and Lacy had shared a deep musical relationship stretching back decades, while Avenel’s patient, resonant bass had become an important part of both musicians’ later work. The album therefore feels less like a retrospective than another continuation of an ongoing conversation, shaped by familiarity but still capable of surprise.

The recording’s most immediate feature is Waldron’s touch. By 2002 his playing had become even more economical, with every chord and repeated figure carrying the weight of a deliberate decision. He rarely fills the keyboard simply because space is available. Low notes establish dark foundations, compact harmonies gather above them and short melodic cells are repeated until their internal character begins to change. Waldron’s repetitions never feel mechanical. Each return arrives with a slightly altered emphasis, creating momentum through pressure, spacing and accumulation rather than speed.

Jean-Jacques Avenel understands this method completely. His bass does not merely reinforce roots or maintain a steady pulse beneath the piano. It moves as an independent voice, sometimes shadowing Waldron’s patterns and elsewhere opening a second path through the composition. His sound is full and woody, but never overstated. Even during the sparsest passages he gives the music physical depth, allowing Waldron’s chords to stand against something solid without enclosing them inside a conventional rhythm section.

The absence of drums contributes greatly to the album’s character. Time remains present, but it is carried through phrasing rather than marked by cymbals or a repeated beat. Waldron can slow a figure until it nearly stops, then push forward through a cluster of sharper attacks. Avenel responds through placement and duration, allowing notes to ring or cutting them short enough to create tension. The result is spacious without becoming loose. Every pause feels connected to the larger structure.

Steve Lacy’s appearances introduce another familiar but unpredictable element. His soprano saxophone has a dry, direct tone that fits naturally beside Waldron’s dark piano language. Lacy does not decorate the compositions or float above them as a featured guest. He enters the architecture of the music, tracing its angles and exposing small openings between the repeated chords. His phrases can be sharply articulated, yet he also knows when a single sustained note will carry more force than an extended run.

The interaction between Waldron and Lacy is built upon restraint. Both musicians had spent years developing highly recognizable vocabularies, but neither uses the session to display accumulated technique. They listen for the smallest points of contact. A brief piano motif may prompt a narrow saxophone phrase, while a held soprano tone can cause Waldron to change the weight of an entire harmonic sequence. Avenel remains essential between them, preventing the dialogue from becoming a simple exchange of lead voices.

The material moves through blues, ballad forms and open-ended composition without treating those categories as separate territories. “All Alone” establishes an atmosphere of reflection through carefully spaced piano and bass, while “Rites of Initiation” expands into a longer collective process. “You” has the intimate concentration of a private address, and “Blues for JJ’s Bass” acknowledges Avenel’s central presence without turning the piece into a conventional feature. Waldron’s return to “The Seagulls of Kristiansund” brings one of his enduring compositions into a late setting where its melancholy feels especially concentrated.

Nothing on One More Time is hurried. The performances allow themes to emerge gradually, often leaving them partially unresolved. Waldron understood that repetition could deepen an idea rather than merely restate it, and the trio repeatedly proves how much emotional variation can be drawn from limited material. A chord becomes darker through altered spacing. A bass phrase changes meaning when placed against silence. A soprano line that initially sounds severe can become unexpectedly tender when it returns.

The recording is clear and intimate, preserving the grain of each instrument without polishing away its physical presence. Piano hammers, bass resonance and Lacy’s breath remain audible as parts of the music rather than background details. This closeness reinforces the album’s sense of concentration. It feels less like a performance projected outward than three musicians gathered around a shared body of material, examining it from within.

Because Waldron died later in 2002, it is difficult to hear One More Time without recognizing its place near the end of his career. Yet the album does not sound exhausted, nostalgic or resigned. Its strength comes from continuity. Waldron remained committed to the same essential questions that had guided his work for decades: how repetition creates intensity, how silence shapes form and how a small melodic figure can hold enormous emotional weight. One More Time is not powerful because it offers closure. It is powerful because the conversation still sounds unfinished.