The first two times I listened to Russell Welch’s new album, I was busy doing something else. Doing what, you ask? As it happens, I was writing a feature about the late British jazz critic Max Jones—which you will have read recently or will soon have a chance to read, depending on when this review is published. And I have to say, after those first two passes, Time On My Hands just hadn’t grabbed me.
This ethereal, Hallowe’en-ish offering does not make good background music, I discovered, frequently imposing upon one’s focus with musical saws out of nowhere, hoodoo-voodoo vocals and bewilderingly complex guitar improvisation. The third time I listened I was bedridden with the ’flu, slightly buzzed on analgesics, with nothing to do but rest and drink fluids. This sorry state, it could be said, is the perfect one in which to enjoy Welch’s weird new record.
The thing is, this is a work which rewards attentive listening. Take “Improvisation no1”: what seemed at first, in my semi-focused writing mode, like the random twiddling of a guitarist possessed revealed itself to be a fascinating journey from rudimentary pluckings and strummings, via increasingly elaborate chord voicings, climaxing in a series of dizzyingly complex riffs with a distinctly flamenco flavor.
With the exception of this spectacular solo, the tracks of Time On My Hands combine the efforts of guitarist/
