There’s an ineffable feeling to this record. It doesn’t announce itself; you simply notice, a few bars in, that the music is walking on its own—steady and unforced, like it knows exactly where it’s going. Maybe the word for that is mastery. Or trust. The kind of trust that comes from long histories of shared stages and shared silences. No one needs to make something happen here. We’re already there.

Martin doesn’t anchor the group so much as gently steer it. There’s a generosity to the way he plays—space left open, weight carefully distributed—like a host making sure everyone at the table has room to speak. Anat effortlessly carries that conversational tone: her clarinet sings, sighs, jokes, and remembers. Kenny is the gravitational center of the record. He never calls attention to himself; he simply allows the band to flow through him. Matt is a virtuoso of color on the drums, always commenting and shaping with quiet precision.

Joy is everywhere in this music, but it’s a grounded joy, rooted in craft and connection—and connection is at the heart of this art form for me. This record feels like a welcoming, an invitation—to the players and to the listener alike. The music says: we’re in this—whatever this is—together.

So let’s call that mastery: the ability to let time flow through us, to invite real listening, real connection. Four masters around the dinner table. Stars.