Maiden voyage

Robert Mitchell's debut is full of fiery talent, even if it takes a few wrong turns, says John Fordham

Robert Mitchell's Panacea Voyager
(Dune Records) ****

Robert Mitchell, now 29, is the Essex pianist who distinguished himself as a collaborator with the crossover bands Quite Sane and J-Life and worked alongside Steve Coleman and Courtney Pine. This is his debut album as a leader, and it provides the satisfying suspicion that a young UK virtuoso of McCoy Tyner-like precision, excitement, boldness and scope is on the rise.

Anyone who has witnessed Mitchell's formidable improvising skills, and detected his remarkable breadth of idiomatic and technical references, might not be surprised to discover that Voyager refers to grooves of all kinds without sitting tight on any of them. This is the source of the disc's absorbing unpredictability, but also perhaps the source of a periodic indecision that, on initial listenings at any rate, can be frustrating. But in the end, the sheer drive of the leader's own inventiveness, the courage of his convictions in restlessly gravitating away from familiar ground, and the technical range and emotional scope of the Zimbabwean vocalist Eska Mtungwazi give it the benefit of the doubt.

If there's a central paradox in this music, it is that only Mitchell himself seems consistently at one with his materials from an improvisor's point of view. Even though the multi-national Panacea is Mitchell's regular band, the saxophonist Barak Schmool sounds at times as if he's picking his way through the leader's laterally conceived structures as if their implications are overwhelming. The rhythm section also sounds inhibited by the project's formal ambitions at times.

If you were to drop into different areas of Voyager at random, you might think you were in a Cecil Taylor record, a through-composed piece by Anthony Braxton, a Wayne Shorter tune, or a session of jazz-funk fronted by a more than usually expressive singer. Yet at first, it suggests nothing so much as an intriguing exercise in freebop virtuosity. The opening track unfolds a long lava-flow of keyboard improvisation. It bursts out of an alternately jittery and spacey melody, which floats over a twangy electric bass line with a funky snare-drum slam. Mitchell's phrasing in this startling overture is a testament to his resourcefulness, suggestive of Chick Corea at the brief stage of his life when free-music still intrigued him. The arrival of Eska Mtungwazi's voice introduces the other great strength of the set. It has operatic purity at the top of the range, a soul-singer's frankness in the middle, and a Cleo Laine-like roundedness of diction on the lyrics.

The song Witness 2 exhibits some of the set's more mixed qualities when the voice gives way to instrumental improvising, but the title track is a superb piece of pianistics over a Latin feel. The Torch reveals Mitchell's fondness for romantic classical piano, and it's a bonus to hear the saxophone of Steve Williamson - a dramatic, piercing, soprano line - in emotional duet with Mitchell on the evocatively misty finale. A mixed achievement so far, maybe - but for pretty good reasons.