Pensive, subtle, strong, cohesive and hummable. . . as first time listener I was captivated by song-like structure to what in the end is a jazz rendition of music that could go in many more less adventurous directions but the path taken is the most adventurous one for us, the listener.
Composed over the course of several years and crystallised during lockdown, Juniper often resembles an audio-visual journey through a series of interconnected rooms. Melodies are instantly hummable, and Fredriksson’s expressive bass clarinet and alto and baritone saxes are always centre stage. Rather refreshingly there is little attempt to dazzle with untamed virtuosity, and by combining texturally layered field recordings, analogue keyboards, guitar and voice with remotely recorded contributions from a cast of familiar guests, Fredriksson manages to imbue each piece with its own distinct atmosphere.
Neon Light captures that familiar feeling when skies darken and a storm washes over the city. Downcast alto traces a long and graceful melodic arc before the track dissipates in a haze of multiphonics, and headphone listeners will hear the sound of falling rain recorded outside the saxophonist’s Helsinki studio. The title track’s ritualistic beats and floating theme momentarily recall the late Jon Hassell, before a burst of raucous baritone quickly returns the music back to earth.
Nana-Tepalle, dedicated to Fredriksson’s departed grandmother, moves through the full gamut of emotion, and Matti Bye’s Satie-esque piano is a near perfect coda. The rustic airs of Pinetree Song, introspective and longing, feature Fredriksson’s battered old acoustic guitar, while the intro to the shape-shifting Transit wallows in sheer melodic bliss. The elegiac Lempilauluni (“My Loved Song”) is carried by Fredriksson’s (wordless) voice, and the closing Clea seems to miraculously condense the scale and grandeur of Jarrett’s Arbour Zena into a mere six minutes.
Saxophonist Linda Fredriksson is a product of Helsinki’s thriving contemporary jazz scene, epitomised by the label We Jazz. Their playful trio Mopo won the Finnish equivalent of a Grammy for 2014 album Beibe, and they’re also a member of the more avant-leaning Superposition. Two members of the latter play on Juniper, but this is very much a solo project in terms of vision and execution. While Fredriksson references sax greats Eric Dolphy and Pharoah Sanders, their approach here was equally influenced by Neil Young, Feist, and particularly Sufjan Stevens’ Carrie & Lowell, the 2015 album dedicated to his mother and stepfather. Touchstones don’t come more personal than that.
Fredriksson says they often write songs at home on their battered acoustic guitar before transposing them to the jazz idiom. But in this case, co-producer Minna Koivisto persuaded them that the demos were the essence of the whole project, and that they should build the recordings carefully around these scratch home recordings rather than simply overwriting them. Some tracks feature up to five additional musicians – Koivisto on synth, Tuomo Prättälä on keyboards, Olavi Louhivuori on drums, Mikael Saastamoinen on bass and Matti Bye on piano – but you can still sometimes hear the buzzing strings of Fredriksson’s old acoustic, the dry ambience of a living room and the glitching of the iPhone mic that recorded it. Other songs are enhanced by field recordings of seagulls or the sounds of wind on rocks, captured near Fredriksson’s family summer-house in Taalintehdas, on the Archipelago Sea. It makes for an album rich in small details, instantly welcoming and endearingly vulnerable, proud to wear its heart right on its sleeve.
Look at the artwork for ‘Juniper’. What do you see? In front of a lilac background there are some bushes, possibly juniper, painted in orange. In front for those are some purple, or dark blue depending on whether I’m looking on my phone or computer, petals that are falling. The mood it creates is one of serenity, but also of movement. If you have ever watched petals fall to the ground, you know that it doesn’t take long, but their descent isn’t a straight line either. They can be buffeted by the breeze and end up somewhere unexpected. This is exactly what Linda Fredriksson has created on ‘Juniper’. A slow descent to an unknown destination.
Throughout the album Linda Fredriksson has created something that sounds like a traditional jazz album. Deep horns. Subtle repetitive motifs, which deliver massive emotional impacts. There are wailing solos and freak-outs. However, underpinning this is an electronic foundation made up of throbbing synths and frenzied bleeps. All the while rolling percussion fills in any gaps, while keeping things moving forward.
There are times during ‘Juniper’ where I think “These are some of the tenderest pieces of music I’ve heard for a long time”. ‘Neon Light [and the sky was trans]’ is filled with yearning and passion, but with these moments of aggression that bubble up, then slow dissolve. The final third features Fredriksson on sax. Sometimes melodic, others playing free. Many of the themes on ‘Juniper’ are executed expertly on ‘Neon Light [and the sky was trans]’. One theme feels like an inability to express what you are actually feeling. This is something we’ve all had to deal with over the past two years, or so. It's hard to get across how frustrated you feel, or the sadness when reading the news. Or the elation when seeing a friend by chance in town. You have so much you want to say, but all that comes out is something about work, or how you need new shoes. Here Fredriksson is trying to articulate their inner torments, but only painfully squeaky sax comes out. It is a fitting end to a glorious song, but also a fitting start to one of the strongest albums released this year.
Comments