Kenny Barron, Songbook Review

By Stamish Malcus

With Songbook, Kenny Barron positions himself as a pianist supporting a vocal ensemble exploring the structural ingenuity of his compositions. The album’s distinguishing quality is not its roster of vocalists, nor the novelty of adding lyrics to established material, but the clarity with which Barron’s compositional architecture governs the session. Expressive freedom is present throughout, but it operates inside carefully proportioned harmonic and rhythmic boundaries.

At the center is Barron’s long-standing trio with bassists Kiyoshi Kitagawa and drummer Johnathan Blake. Their function is to generate momentum through supporting the contour shifts of each vocalist. Tempos are set with intention and rarely manipulated for effect. Dynamic ceilings are controlled. Cadences land with deliberation. This steadiness becomes the platform upon which eight distinct vocal presences move without destabilizing the design.

Barron’s piano defines the album’s governing principle. His voicings are the warmth, the color, the space around the vocalists. He listens before he enters the vocal phrase, allowing the singer to establish contour before reinforcing it harmonically. This is not passivity; it is architectural control. The harmonic field is clearly drawn, and the vocal line is invited to inhabit it.

Jean Baylor, featured on “Beyond This Place” and “Until Then,” offers a clear example of how this containment operates. Her legato phrasing arcs smoothly across the barline, yet Barron does not thicken the texture to match the sustain. Instead, he spaces his chords to preserve clarity of line, often allowing left-hand support to imply rather than state density. Kitagawa anchors root movement with steady articulation, and Blake maintains a controlled cymbal pattern that stabilizes pulse beneath Baylor’s elongated phrases. The structure holds; the freedom remains internal.

Ann Hampton Callaway’s “Cook’s Bay” further illustrates Barron’s compositional pacing. Harmonic pivots align cleanly with lyrical shifts, and the piano reinforces those transitions through subtle contour mirroring rather than reharmonization. There are no dramatic misaligned substitutions to reframe the material; instead, Barron trusts the internal balance of his writing. The trio’s dynamic swells are proportional, never exaggerated, reinforcing the album’s commitment to structural discipline.

Cécile McLorin Salvant’s contributions, particularly “Thoughts and Dreams,” “Sunshower,” and “Song For Abdullah,”demonstrate how elasticity can occur without loosening tempo or harmonic orientation. Her phrasing occasionally floats above the rhythmic grid, creating a sensation of suspension. Yet the trio maintains internal clockwork precision. Blake’s cymbal texture shifts subtly to accommodate her dynamic shading, while Barron keeps voicings sparse and centered. The effect is freedom contained by form: expressive flexibility without architectural drift.

Ekep Nkwelle, heard on “Illusion” and “Sonia Braga,” brings a forward push in rhythmic articulation. When her phrasing leans ahead of the beat, Barron resists the impulse to chase or mirror that urgency. Instead, he places chords with perfect timing, reinforcing harmonic landmarks. Kitagawa’s bass remains grounded, clarifying tonal direction even as the vocal line stretches against it. The ensemble listens and adjusts, but the compositional framework remains unchanged.

Catherine Russell’s “Minor Blues Redux” offers a study in stylistic containment. The blues form could invite expanded substitutions or heightened dramatization, yet Barron maintains clarity. Harmonic motion is articulated with precision rather than flourish. The trio honors the traditional structure without overstatement, demonstrating that discipline can be more compelling than embellishment.

On “In The Slow Lane,” Kurt Elling’s narrative phrasing unfolds across a steady harmonic rhythm. Barron reinforces structural landmarks beneath Elling’s elongated lines, subtly guiding resolution points without intruding upon the storytelling arc. Blake’s fills are concise and proportionate, never disrupting tempo stability. The composition’s architecture remains the governing force.

Tyreek McDole’s performances on “Calypso” and “Marie Laveau” introduce more assertive rhythmic inflection. Here, the ensemble’s responsiveness becomes especially clear. When McDole accents unexpected rhythmic turns, Blake adjusts accent placement with precision while preserving pulse continuity. Barron’s harmonic field does not widen; instead, he reinforces chordal clarity, ensuring that improvisational gestures remain anchored.

Kavita Shah’s “Lullabye” highlights another aspect of Barron’s leadership: tonal shading within moderate dynamic range. The piano delicately emphasizes upper extensions, avoiding overstatement and distraction. The trio sustains gentle propulsion without textural buildup. Even at its most subdued, the structure is audible and firm.

Barron’s compositional authority lies in proportion. His playing in this setting also reflects this knowing. Knowing how much space to leave, how densely to voice, when to reinforce, and when to withhold. The trio also embodies that restraint with precision. The result is an album in which expressive vocal performances are framed by a clearly articulated form.

Songbook affirms a particular model of jazz leadership, one rooted in design rather than display. Barron builds structures that endure interpretation without surrendering identity. Within those structures, the voice finds room to freely move.