
Trumpeter Ambrose Akinmusire rebukes the notion that musical abstraction is inherently cerebral. Within on the tender spot of every calloused moment, he lapses from intricate compositional tightness into bouts of freedom that uncannily imitate the ways in which feelings manifest in the body. “Tide of Hyacinth” opens the record with scribbled trumpet lines like knots in the diaphragm —
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