The terrible triumvirate from Boston has built its powerful, signature synergy by building modal collective improvisations of cohesion and grace. Bassist John Lockwood lays a red carpet (so silky you’d swear he were playing electric until he duets with his bow on “Our Fathers”); drummer Bob Gullatti and tenor saxophonist George Garzone is up and down, in and out, over and under his horn. The command and the groove are one. The Fringe’s ship of the desert sails as smoothly over the sands of Eilat as easily as if it were plying the Red Sea on sheets of sonic glass.
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