Kenny Barron Trio, So Many Lovely Things: Live in Brecon Review

Keeping the Melody in Sight: Kenny Barron Trio’s So Many Lovely Things

By Ferell Aubre

Archival jazz releases often earn their value by uncovering forgotten performances from celebrated musicians. So Many Lovely Things: Live in Brecon (1995) certainly succeeds on that level, preserving a previously unreleased concert by pianist Kenny Barron, bassist Ray Drummond, and drummer Ben Riley at the 1995 Brecon Jazz Festival. The lasting importance of this recording lies beyond its historical rarity. What emerges over nearly two hours of music is a trio whose collective artistry rests on a remarkably consistent principle: no matter how expansive the improvisation becomes, the melody never loses its identity. Barron may introduce the harmonic possibilities, but Drummond and Riley continually reinforce the form, pulse, and phrasing that keep each composition unmistakably present.

That shared musicality gives the performance its remarkable coherence. Each performance is an improvisation by the trio that grow directly from the song. Barron’s upper-structure voicings, chromatic passing harmonies, blues inflections, flowing arpeggios, rhythmic displacement, and finely controlled dynamics continually expand the music without obscuring its melodic center. Drummond’s harmonic awareness and Riley’s sensitive shaping of phrase endings and dynamic contours make those expansions feel inevitable rather than disruptive. The listener is never asked to choose between appreciating the composition and admiring the improvisation because the trio treats both as parts of the same musical language.

Freddie Hubbard’s “Up Jumped Spring” brings that principle into focus from its opening moments. Barron introduces the melody alone, allowing natural breaths between phrases before Drummond and Riley enter with a relaxed jazz waltz pulse. As the improvisation unfolds, repeated-note motives grow into longer melodic ideas, upper-structure voicings deepen the harmonic palette, and the trio gradually increases both intensity and dynamic range. Even as streaming sixteenth-note passages and expansive multi-octave figures gather momentum, fragments of Hubbard’s melody remain clearly audible. Barron repeatedly returns to familiar contours while reshaping the harmony around them, allowing the tune to remain the listener’s point of reference. Equally important, recurring rhythmic cadences at the end of each chorus function as formal landmarks, keeping the performance grounded while inviting fresh exploration. When Drummond and Riley trade phrases, they continue developing those same structural markers, making their exchanges feel like extensions of the composition.

Ray Drummond and Ben Riley do far more than accompany Barron; they make the trio’s architecture audible. Drummond’s bass lines confirm harmonic substitutions with remarkable ease while maintaining an exceptionally centered tone and an unwavering sense of pulse. His solos balance lyrical melodic development with clear harmonic direction, allowing every phrase to reinforce the underlying form. Riley listens with equal precision. Whether shaping a ballad with brushes, opening the sound with sticks on the ride cymbal, or coloring transitions with snare commentary and cymbal swells, he consistently clarifies phrase structure instead of competing for attention. Together they transform the rhythm section into a structural guide, illuminating the music’s framework without ever making that guidance feel overt.

“Time Was” opens another window onto the trio’s approach. Built on familiar rhythm changes, the performance could easily become a showcase for bebop virtuosity. Instead, Barron keeps the melody firmly in view through carefully voiced chord tones, chromatic approaches, and flowing lines that resolve naturally into the harmony. His rhythmic placement breathes from chorus to chorus, sometimes settling squarely into the swing pulse and sometimes stretching gently against it, creating subtle tension without disturbing the form. As Barron introduces harmonic substitutions, Drummond immediately reinforces the new harmonic landscape, while Riley’s understated snare commentary quietly marks important arrivals and transitions. Technical brilliance is present throughout, but it consistently serves the song.

Thelonious Monk’s “Ask Me Now” has Barron presenting the melody with striking beauty, giving nearly every melodic note its own harmonic color while preserving Monk’s unmistakable voice. His left hand maintains a steady quarter-note foundation as the right hand alternates between lyrical phrases, double-time passages, and layered rhythmic ideas that remain connected to the tune’s contour. Counterpoint, register shifts, and harmonic substitutions emerge from Monk’s writing rather than competing with it. When Drummond begins his solo, he develops fragments of the melody through blues-inflected lines, elegant voice leading, and beautifully controlled phrasing. Riley’s brushwork quietly reinforces both pulse and form, allowing the trio’s harmonic sophistication to remain inviting rather than abstract. Even during the most adventurous passages, the listener never loses track of where the music is heading.

“The Very Thought of You” distills the trio’s aesthetic into its most lyrical form. Barron’s spacious solo introduction allows the melody to breathe before the trio enters with understated warmth. Layered textures, delicate voice leading, expressive blues inflections, and luminous upper-register voicings deepen the emotional character of the standard without overwhelming its simplicity. His remarkable technical command remains entirely in service of expression; rapid arpeggios, intricate inner voices, and shifting harmonic colors all grow from the melody rather than drawing attention to themselves. Drummond responds with a bass solo that preserves the song’s melodic contour while moving effortlessly across the instrument’s full range, and Riley colors the performance with restrained brushwork and subtle cymbal textures that gently shape the ensemble’s dynamic arc. When Barron returns to the closing statement of the melody, the performance feels like an extended musical conversation.

That conversational quality undoubtedly reflects the decades of shared experience among Barron, Drummond, and Riley. The trio’s greatest achievement lies in something even more fundamental though. Their interaction continually strengthens the listener’s orientation rather than challenging it. Harmonic substitutions, rhythmic expansion, dynamic growth, contrapuntal textures, and improvisational freedom all become ways of revealing the compositions more fully. Sophisticated post-bop language never becomes an end in itself; it becomes a means of hearing familiar songs from continually changing perspectives while never losing sight of their essential character.

As a historical document, So Many Lovely Things: Live in Brecon (1995) captures one of Kenny Barron’s finest working trios during a particularly fertile period. As a musical statement, however, it offers something even more enduring. It reminds us that the highest level of improvisation does not leave melody behind in pursuit of invention. Instead, melody becomes the point of orientation from which invention continually unfolds. Barron, Drummond, and Riley reshape harmony, rhythm, texture, and form without ever allowing the listener to lose sight of the song. That musical discipline gives this remarkable archival release not only its enduring coherence but also its lasting beauty.