Veryan Weston is both a peerless virtuoso, his uncontaminated figurations and innovative intuitions difficult to compare with anyone else’s, and a shamefully overlooked pianist when the stupid games of name-throwing begin. Allusions, which comprises almost the entirety of a concert recorded in 2002 at the Librairie Mollat in Bordeaux, may be used as a toe-dipper for the unversed despite its specific character, nearer to pure ad-libbing (or, as per Martin Davidson’s definition, “stream of consciousness improvising”) than previous records by the same artist which were based on prearranged structures, such as the unforgettable Tessellations (also on Emanem). This is one of those items who should hypothetically open many people’s eyes about the fact that the planet with 88 keys is not exclusively revolving around Köln: there are also musicians whose intellect features a couple of supplementary gears.

The problem, perhaps, lies in how the general audience might react to the use of those “supplementary gears”: the wonderful decentralizations of chords, the self-reliance of Weston’s fingers as opposed to the pre-digested concepts which several presumed masters punch the clock of our tolerance with, and the now inert, now furious dynamics succeeding minute in, minute out could easily push back someone who approaches a solo piano effort with the disinterested attitude of a cretin, that kind of yes-I-know-what-it-is-ism which prevents knowledge and experience from depositing even a few seeds of curiosity in the mind of a human being.

Over the course of these seven tracks, we’re marvellously attended by a realistically down-to-earth, yet hypercritically incorruptible creativity. This music appears in gushes and trickles, nearly materializing in ever-multiplying figures in front of the listener for barely a handful of seconds; then it goes straight to the archive of generic recollection, the place where a record is filed as a “colour” rather than effectively committed to memory. It leaves an indelible mark, yet there’s not a single fraction – except maybe for the short citation of “Somewhere Over The Rainbow” – which we’ll be able to literally recall. However, consider yourselves stone-hearted if you’re not moved by the wondrous harmonic passages in the final section of “Traces Of Nuts”.

Allusions is a fundamental addition to any creditable collection, in the hope that its originator finally receives the accolades he’s been deserving for decades by a larger social segment.

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