"Everything that rises must converge" — so wrote paleontologist and priest Pierre Teilhard de Chardin (1881-1955), who envisioned an "Omega Point" right before Christ turns on his light and we all fly unto it. I'm cool on Christ, but I'm moved on a suggestive level by the idea of getting together. So are these three kings on drummer William Hooker's latest get-together, landing at Omega or no.
Sabir Mateen on woodwinds and David Soldier on things with strings, forsooth summon familiar atmospheres: Soldier's mandolin on the first cut invokes your favorite tumbleweeded Western. Mateen picks up his sax; now your ears taste flamenco basted in jovial bebop.
Gifted with such contrasts, the two square their square by contrasting contrasts with comparisons. Midair, they meet and match frequencies, never melding Omega smooth but pushing, circling, heat dripping off their mad dash.
Hooker meanwhile advances steadily through the history of the world, percussively speaking. From the "prehistoric" voice alone, he progresses to ticking clicks, his bass drum kicks concentric rings fleeing a stone dropped in water. Cymbals (indicating metal mastery) don't materialize until track three, after which it's bombs (and civilization) all over, an intelligent frenzy over the whole kit he now knows.
I can't say what Hooker's "spoken word" signifies, though he sounds awfully crabby demanding "What is this funk?" So that bone may emerge as a bonus. This far to Omega, though, the playing's the thing.
"Everything that rises must converge" — so wrote paleontologist and priest Pierre Teilhard de Chardin (1881-1955), who envisioned an "Omega Point" right before Christ turns on his light and we all fly unto it. I'm cool on Christ, but I'm moved on a suggestive level by the idea of getting together. So are these three kings on drummer William Hooker's latest get-together, landing at Omega or no.
Sabir Mateen on woodwinds and David Soldier on things with strings, forsooth summon familiar atmospheres: Soldier's mandolin on the first cut invokes your favorite tumbleweeded Western. Mateen picks up his sax; now your ears taste flamenco basted in jovial bebop.
Gifted with such contrasts, the two square their square by contrasting contrasts with comparisons. Midair, they meet and match frequencies, never melding Omega smooth but pushing, circling, heat dripping off their mad dash.
Hooker meanwhile advances steadily through the history of the world, percussively speaking. From the "prehistoric" voice alone, he progresses to ticking clicks, his bass drum kicks concentric rings fleeing a stone dropped in water. Cymbals (indicating metal mastery) don't materialize until track three, after which it's bombs (and civilization) all over, an intelligent frenzy over the whole kit he now knows.
I can't say what Hooker's "spoken word" signifies, though he sounds awfully crabby demanding "What is this funk?" So that bone may emerge as a bonus. This far to Omega, though, the playing's the thing.