It’s a lovely triumph of a record — three volumes in, and they’ve simply found another reason to share the tenderness that’s always been there. A fourth volume would be welcome.
Miel Music
Miguel Zenón – alto saxophone; Luis Perdomo – piano
El Arte Del Bolero asks a lot of a listener. It wants you to sit still while it aches. Bolero centers deeply on themes of lost love, unrequited longing, and deep emotional pain. Alto saxophonist Miguel Zenón and pianist Luis Perdomo don’t so much interpret that ache as live it — this is music they grew up with, love, and clearly want to keep passing on. These are songs from childhood, remembered through parents and grandparents.
This is the third volume in Zenón and Perdomo’s bolero project — they’ve played together for 27 years, first in the Miguel Zenón Quartet and now across three duo records built from this same songbook. They open with “La Gloria Eres Tú,” Zenón’s tone clear, almost no vibrato, until Perdomo’s piano slips in quietly and pulls more feeling out of him — the two dancing around a melancholy melody, Zenón climbing into the top of his range until a note nearly breaks into a squeal, Perdomo answering with elegant right-hand runs against a few sparse left-hand chords.
On “El Día que Me Quieras,” Zenón’s tone cracks toward a cry as he tells the tango’s story, while Perdomo answers underneath with dramatic, melancholy runs. At song’s end they’ve slowed down, both a little spent, like they’ve shared something emotional. “De Qué Callada Manera” turns the mood around — piano and sax enter together like they’re holding hands, and Perdomo’s left locks into a low, hypnotic, repeating figure, Zenón in the same rocking rhythm, lighthearted phrases twisting and turning.
These boleros share a common ache, but each wears it differently. “Sombras,” an Ecuadorian pasillo blending the triple-meter lilt of a European waltz with local melody, has Zenón stepping in like a bullfighter entering the ring, and his tone taking on the reedy croon of a South American accordion. “Un Amor de la Calle” — first sung by Héctor Lavoe — turns the original’s horn line into a vamp for the duo to improvise over, the saxophone pushing into its upper register like it’s begging to be heard. And “Verdad Amarga” borrows its bridge from Jerry González and the Fort Apache Band, piano and sax trading phrases so gently, so closely, it’s hard not to hear someone crying underneath the melody.
You don’t need to know these songs to feel what they mean to Zenón and Perdomo. It’s a lovely triumph of a record — three volumes in, and they’ve simply found another reason to share the tenderness that’s always been there. A fourth volume would be welcome.
