Naffin & Wright Muskoka Dreamtime

Usually, when a cello is introduced into the equation, it stays in the background, augmenting the lead instruments. Not so with Alyssa Wright on Muskoka Dreamtime. Here the compositions are capacious to carry both musicians center stage. A dramatic interplay exists in which, say, a polka-esque dance is driven forward in unison, with choppy licks from one, whilst an embellishment from the other promotes the melody. The playing is intelligent and sympathetic in the shared space. To experience this live must be a pleasure.

Nick Naffin's guitar style on this, his second release, is less neo-flamenco saturated than on his previous album Music from the Sacred Grounds (see Review) and more akin to that of Al DiMeola, but with the solo-constructing sensitivities of John McLaughlin. This playing maturity is a very good thing. Solos are less colourful than before, but are now imbued with a sense of purpose rather than just providing ornamentation. They are lifted up, yearning to reach some elusive goal. Like JM, the solos integrate with the fabric of each piece, extending beyond the scope of dedicated solo space. On the other hand, whilst comping, Naffin has a sharp attack which sometimes is too abrasive to accompany the silky tones of Wright's cello.

Conversely, when rhythm is played on the cello, it's as if the tune has been deconstructed, the bricks discarded, and new wonderful chunky blocks hewn from the colossal textural palette of this instrument. The effect is something near the first incarnation of the Electric Light Orchestra, a panoply of acoustic wonderment.

All bar two of the tracks are self-penned. The album starts strongly with the waltzing Cirrus, although the cicada drone adds nothing. The title track is a lovely soft ballad that features the cello at it's sinewy best, but also contains an emphatic solo on guitar. The tuneful The Shaman is as catchy as the cover of Luiz Bonfa's Manha De Carnival that follows it. For this, the cello is exquisite, firstly plucked to provide a choral backdrop to some of Naffin's finest soloing, and then oozing it's own romantic solace. The next two offerings are less memorable. Mantis is a stilted tango whilst Solitaire is a quirky waltz that heralds the return of the plague of locusts from before. Next up is a frustratingly short Eleanor Rigby. Frustratingly short because it really is very good, avoiding the dangers of crassness and cliche that accompany famous covers. An extended version would have been welcome, but you know what they say in showbiz, "leave 'em wanting more". Probably the highlight of the album is saved for last, the almost ten minute-long Octember Moon has a catchy melody, finds both players at their lyrical best, and is symphonic in proportions.