Pete Mills, This Is Now Review

Pete Mills’ This Is Now: Ensemble Design as Musical Expression

By Nolan DeBuke

On This Is Now, tenor saxophonist Pete Mills leads a flexible ensemble featuring Kenny Banks Jr. on piano, Pete McCann on electric and acoustic guitar, Martin Wind on bass, and Matt Wilson on drums. Across twelve tracks, the group moves comfortably among full-quintet performances, chordless trios, intimate duets, guitar-centered grooves, piano-led conversations, Latin rhythms, ballads, and hard-swinging post-bop. Mills continually redraws the musical landscape around his tenor, allowing each change in instrumentation to reshape the music’s character without sacrificing the album’s identity and musicality.

The title track establishes that approach as McCann’s guitar and Mills’ tenor begin together on the melody before separating and reconnecting as the composition shifts between straight and swing eighths. Wind’s bass supplies a warm, woody pulse, breaking the time during the straighter passages before settling naturally into a walking line once the swing arrives. Wilson moves between those feels with quiet assurance, redistributing weight through the ride cymbal and well-placed accents rather than announcing every transition.

Mills enters his first solo with a compact rhythmic idea and patiently develops it through the harmony. His lines remain grounded in the language of bop and hard bop, but they unfold with contemporary rhythmic freedom. His melodies flowing into the next without losing shape or momentum. Banks solo responds with layered voicings that expand into multi-octave arpeggios before building toward ascending chordal figures. McCann’s solo picks up that same rising energy, carrying it into single-note lines, double stops, and short rhythmic cells. When one of those figures is echoed almost immediately by Wind and Wilson, the entire ensemble pivots around the shared idea before returning to the written form.

That sense of collective listening carries naturally into “Sunset STX,” where the opening swing gives way to a relaxed medium-tempo Latin groove. McCann exchanges his electric guitar for nylon strings, softening the ensemble’s attack with warm fingerstyle parts that drift easily between melody and accompaniment. Banks avoids filling the same space, surrounding the guitar instead with well-placed harmonic cushions and lightly placed fills. Beneath them, Wind anchors the syncopated bass pattern while Wilson spreads the groove across cymbals and toms, letting the pulse breathe while still driving it forward.

Mills adjusts just as naturally. His phrases lengthen, his articulation relaxes, and his dynamics become part of the storytelling. Short accented notes define the edges of a phrase before flowing into longer legato lines. Because the harmony follows a familiar standard progression, the improvisations reveal how each player negotiates the changes rather than relying on harmonic surprise. Banks threads contemporary substitutions through the accompaniment without disturbing the tune’s lyrical character, while McCann answers Mills near the close in brief call-and-response figures that gradually dissolve into silence.

“Daddies” shifts again, this time toward a classic swing vocabulary. Mills’ tenor takes on a rougher edge, leaning into blues inflections, expressive fall-offs, and wider rhythmic gestures. The harmonic language remains contemporary, but the performance draws its momentum from the easy authority of the swing tradition. Banks matches the change immediately, choosing voicings that recall an earlier jazz language before stretching them through substitutions, upper-structure harmony, and broad two-handed lines. Wind’s walking bass keeps the pulse firmly planted, while Wilson balances steady ride cymbal time with conversational snare commentary that grows more animated as Mills pushes higher into the horn.

During the solo, Mills develops short blues figures rather than long streams of notes. He repeats them, reshapes them rhythmically, then carries them into the altissimo register before resolving them naturally back into the body of the instrument. Wilson catches several of those rhythmic ideas on the snare, and Banks answers with compact chordal punctuations that reinforce the direction of the line without interrupting it. By the time Banks begins his own solo, the rhythmic vocabulary has already become a shared language.

Banks’ improvisation reveals his blues phrases, gospel turns, upper-register runs, and rolling two-hand triplets appearing naturally inside the form. As his right hand grows more active, Wind continues to outline the harmony with an unwavering quarter-note pulse while responding to passing chord substitutions and changes of direction. Wilson follows the contour of the solo rather than simply marking time, allowing the energy to build gradually before his drum feature. Even there, melody remains central. Wilson shapes his solo through the changing pitches of toms, snare, and cymbals, returning to the rhythmic character of the tune rather than treating the break as an interruption.

“Up to Go Down” strips away the piano before the improvisation begins, leaving Mills with only bass and drums beneath him. The reduced texture exposes every contour of his playing. Without harmonic accompaniment, he outlines the changing chords through melodic direction, rhythmic development, and carefully connected voice leading. Wind and Wilson answer almost immediately, lifting fragments of his phrases into the rhythm section so that ideas circulate freely instead of remaining attached to a single soloist.

McCann enters before Mills has completely stepped aside, the two musicians overlapping briefly as one improvisation grows into the next. His solo mixes fluid single-note lines with angular chromatic turns and compact chordal punctuations. Wilson keeps the swing buoyant without crowding the guitar, while Wind shifts naturally between pedal tones and walking bass as the harmony opens and closes beneath the line. When Mills and McCann reunite on the riff-based melody, the opening rhythmic cell returns almost unchanged, giving the performance a satisfying sense of completion.

“Bird Lives” narrows the ensemble. Banks opens alone, establishing a gospel-inflected atmosphere before Mills joins him. The pianist keeps the quarter-note pulse alive through stride references and walking left-hand motion while his right hand alternates between chordal replies and melodic commentary. Mills answers with broader swing phrasing, slurring into downbeats before leaning against syncopations and the natural lift of beats two and four. Neither musician settles permanently into accompaniment or lead. Their roles continue to shift as each responds to the other’s phrasing, articulation, and dynamics.

“3 Kisses” opens another kind of space. Wilson’s brushes, Wind’s broken-time bass, and Banks’ lightly voiced piano leave the center of the ballad remarkably open. Mills resists filling that space. Instead, he shapes the melody through broad dynamic arcs, allowing sustained notes to bloom before easing into shorter, more conversational phrases. His sound remains full and warm, carrying enough edge in the middle register to project without disturbing the music’s calm.

Wind takes the first extended improvisation, moving confidently into the upper register while keeping the harmony clearly outlined beneath his melodic line. His woody tone never loses focus as he follows the inner movement of the progression, allowing each phrase to settle naturally into the next. When Mills returns, he begins with an ascending gesture that grows simultaneously in register and intensity before unfolding into a solo built on melodic continuity rather than display. Playful rhythmic displacements appear throughout, but they never obscure the pulse. Wilson responds almost immediately, catching accents on the snare while Banks quietly binds the harmony and rhythm together beneath the conversation.

Banks’ solo grows from a simple gospel-colored idea. Rather than abandoning it, he gradually carries the figure through different intervals, registers, and harmonic colors. As Wind and Wilson briefly shift toward double time, Banks increases the density of his right hand without losing the clarity of the original motive. When the rhythm section relaxes back into broken time, the piano opens with it, releasing the accumulated tension before the melody returns for a restrained rubato close. Nothing feels inserted for contrast; each section grows naturally from what came before.

If “3 Kisses” reveals the quartet at its most spacious, “Exit Strategy” explores the opposite impulse. The tune opens over a rock-influenced groove before pivoting into an up-tempo swing built from a compact riff. Banks introduces the solo section alone with Wilson, both musicians continuing to reshape fragments of the opening melody until Mills enters almost unnoticed. The transition feels less like a cue than a conversation already in progress.

Mills responds with an assertive performance as every note arrives with intention. Slurs, accents, falls, and dynamic shifts become part of the phrase itself rather than decorative effects. His altissimo register emerges naturally from the line instead of functioning as punctuation, and Wilson shadows those rhythmic turns with increasingly animated snare commentary. Wind continues to alternate between walking lines and groove figures, keeping both rhythmic worlds connected without drawing attention away from the solo.

McCann enters quietly behind the tenor, first through sustained distorted tones, then with a rotary-colored sound that broadens the ensemble without overwhelming it. When his solo arrives, he develops compact rhythmic ideas instead of chasing harmonic complexity. Single-note lines expand into chordal punctuations before returning to flowing melodic phrases, giving the improvisation a strong sense of contour. The written interlude gathers the full ensemble again, reminding the listener that the composition itself remains the source from which each solo grows.

That relationship between written material and improvisation appears throughout the album. Mills’ themes rarely function as simple gateways to blowing. Their rhythmic cells, intervallic shapes, and cadential figures continue to surface inside the improvisations, allowing the music to evolve without losing contact with its original identity.

The medium-up swing of “Inspired” demonstrates that balance especially well. The opening riff carries enough character to stand on its own, yet it also provides fertile material for development. Mills begins his solo with only bass and drums before McCann slips into the texture through jagged rhythmic comping. Wilson immediately catches those accents, and Wind reinforces them without interrupting the quarter-note pulse. Instead of competing for attention, the four musicians gradually build a shared rhythmic vocabulary.

McCann’s improvisation follows a similar path. Five-against-four groupings, displaced accents, and ascending rhythmic sequences create forward motion without sacrificing the underlying swing. Wind continues laying out the harmony with buoyant quarter notes while Wilson keeps the ride cymbal dancing above the ensemble. As McCann gradually introduces chordal ideas, the solo broadens almost imperceptibly before giving way to Wind’s bass feature.

Wind approaches his improvisation melodically rather than percussively. Motivic fragments guide him through the changing harmony, climbing steadily toward the bridge before relaxing into the final A section. Wilson reduces the texture to cymbal and light embellishment, allowing the bass to sing. When Mills returns for trading, both players treat each exchange as an extension of the previous conversation rather than a separate event. The rhythmic motive survives every transition until tenor and guitar restate it together at the close.

“Window Shopping” strips the ensemble back to its chordless core. With only bass and drums surrounding him, Mills relies on articulation, contour, and rhythmic placement to shape the melodies that define the harmony. His opening melody carries the relaxed confidence of a classic medium swing, but the improvisation gradually widens into blues cries, upper-register calls, and playful rhythmic repetition. The harmonic motion remains unmistakable, even without piano or guitar.

Wind and Wilson make that transparency possible. Wind’s walking lines remain clear enough to outline every substitution while Wilson leaves generous air around the beat, answering short motives instead of filling space continuously. At several moments, a rhythmic idea introduced by Mills passes through Wilson’s snare before appearing in Wind’s next phrase. The trio sounds less like a soloist with accompaniment than three musicians completing one another’s sentences.

The album’s contemporary side returns with “Sliver of Silver.” A Latin-inflected groove quickly expands into riff writing that recalls the meeting point between hard bop, modal jazz, and fusion without settling entirely into any one tradition. Banks anchors the opening with rhythmic montuno figures while McCann adds chordal color around the edges. Mills enters with crisp articulation, moving comfortably between fluid lines and short riff-based ideas that draw energy from the rhythm section rather than floating above it.

Banks’ piano solo becomes the center of the performance. His left hand keeps the rhythmic engine alive while the right hand moves through colorful upper structures, pentatonic patterns, passing tones, and broad ascending figures. The improvisation never feels crowded because every increase in activity is balanced by an equally clear sense of direction. When Mills returns, he absorbs that same motivic energy, building repeated intervallic shapes toward a brief climax before releasing the tension into McCann’s guitar solo.

McCann answers differently. Alternate picking, slurred lines, octaves, and chordal passages flow together without drawing attention to technique itself. The improvisation grows through rhythmic accumulation rather than sheer velocity. By the time the melody returns, the earlier riffs have acquired new meaning through everything the ensemble has done with them.

The guitar assumes an even larger role on “Boubar.” Distortion, groove-oriented comping, and a firm backbeat immediately shift the album into another sound world. Mills responds by tightening his phrasing, digging deeper into rhythmic motives, and allowing the tenor’s lower register to speak with greater weight before climbing smoothly into brighter upper-register lines. The result is unmistakably contemporary while remaining rooted in the album’s larger language of interaction.

McCann’s solo extends that character without breaking it. Funk-inflected chordal figures, descending rhythmic strums, and sustained tones keep the groove alive while Wilson mirrors each accent and Wind locks every phrase securely into the pocket. The quartet never mistakes energy for volume. Instead, the performance gains momentum because each player continually strengthens ideas introduced by someone else rather than replacing them with new ones.

Much of the album’s character comes from the contrasting musical personalities of Kenny Banks Jr. and Pete McCann. Banks expands the harmonic landscape. Whether drawing on gospel colors, stride-inflected motion, contemporary voicings, montuno figures, or layered arpeggios, he continually reshapes the harmonic floor beneath the ensemble. His solos rarely chase complexity for its own sake. Instead, they begin with compact ideas that gather momentum through register, interval, and rhythmic variation.

McCann changes the music differently. His contribution is often one of attack, texture, and color. The warmth of his nylon-string guitar gives “Sunset STX” an intimate lyricism, while the rotary shimmer and controlled distortion of “Exit Strategy” widen the ensemble without overwhelming it. On “Boubar,” groove-oriented comping, descending chordal figures, and rhythmic precision create a distinctly different atmosphere from the piano-centered performances. Elsewhere, he doubles Mills’ written melodies, slips into contrapuntal lines, or introduces rhythmic ideas that immediately become part of the ensemble’s conversation.

Banks and McCann never feel interchangeable. Banks draws Mills toward longer harmonic conversations shaped by voice leading and harmonic color. McCann encourages a more rhythmic exchange built on timbre, articulation, and texture. When both appear together, each occupies a clearly defined musical space, allowing the ensemble to sound larger without becoming denser.

Martin Wind and Matt Wilson provide the continuity that makes those changing settings feel connected. Wind moves easily between walking lines, broken time, pedal tones, Latin figures, and melodic soloing without ever losing the center of the pulse. His bass remains one of the album’s most recognizable voices, warm and resonant with enough midrange clarity for every melodic idea to speak clearly.

Wilson performs an equally demanding role. Ride cymbal swing, brushes, Latin grooves, fusion backbeats, conversational snare commentary, and open duet playing all emerge with the same relaxed authority. Just as importantly, he listens. A rhythmic figure introduced by Mills often reappears moments later on Wilson’s snare before finding its way into one of Wind’s lines. Those exchanges happen so naturally that they rarely call attention to themselves, yet they quietly shape the direction of nearly every performance.

The sequencing allows those conversations to remain fresh from beginning to end. Hard-driving post-bop gives way to Latin warmth. Chordless trio performances stand beside intimate duets. Ballads, groove-oriented writing, classic swing, and contemporary textures continually reset the ear before any single approach becomes predictable. The variety never feels episodic because the same habits of listening hold the album together regardless of instrumentation.

That may be the clearest measure of Pete Mills’ leadership. He remains the unmistakable voice at the center of the record and builds musical settings where Banks, McCann, Wind, and Wilson continually redirect the music through their own ideas. His improvisations become part of those conversations rather than existing above them, and the album grows stronger because every musician is allowed to influence its direction.

By the closing performance of Billy Strayhorn’s “U.M.M.G.,” nearly every layer surrounding Mills’ tenor has disappeared. What remains is brushes, breath, melody, and the silence between phrases. It is the sparsest setting on the album, yet it feels completely connected to the opening quintet. The same careful attention to proportion, interaction, and musical space shapes both performances.

This Is Now moves with an exceptional group of musicians. The album succeeds because Mills understands that an ensemble is never defined simply by its personnel. It is defined by the way musicians respond to one another, the way textures shift, ideas circulate, and roles change from one moment to the next. Across twelve thoughtfully sequenced performances, Mills continually reshapes those relationships without ever losing the album’s center. The result is a record whose identity comes from revealing how many different directions a unified ensemble can travel together.