Lucian Ban, John Surman, Mat Maneri – Cantica Profana (Sunnyside, 2025)
Lucian Ban, John Surman, Mat Maneri – The Athenaeum Concert (Sunnyside, 2025)
By Dan SorrellsThe folk music that so inspired Béla Bartók as he traveled Transylvania with his phonograph one hundred years ago continues to bloom, renewing in cycles, the flowers and forms of one season becoming the fertile humus that grows the next generation. In 2020, the trio of pianist Lucian Ban, violist Mat Maneri, and woodwind maestro John Surman debuted their chamber-folk improvisations on Transylvanian Folk Songs,a project rooted deeply in Bartók's own and an outgrowth of Ban and Maneri's earlier duo work. After some pandemic delays, the trio toured on the material between 2022 and 2024. From those concerts, two new releases on Sunnyside: Cantica Profana, a compilation of tracks from several European shows, and The Athenaeum Concert, a full set from the prestigious Romanian Athenaeum in Bucharest (which would also turn out to be Surman's last major performance before his retirement).
Transylvanian Folk Songs originally featured nine tracks inspired by transcriptions and wax cylinder recordings Bartók made of traditional peasant tunes from the Carpathians. This is music that also imbued Ban's childhood in Cluj. Like the nine sons in Bartók's "Cantata Profana," these songs underwent a profound metamorphosis at the hands of the trio, budding melodies and motifs charged with an improvised magic that transformed them into something wilder and less familiar. Cantica Profana and The Athenaeum Concert further push this evolution, with the opportunity to hear multiple versions of songs showing how the trio continually reshapes and renews its source material.
The more upbeat pieces—"Violin Song," "Dowry Song," "Transylvanian Dance"—are driven by rhythmic motives, often delivered by Ban but liable to be traded around to any member as the moment demands. This rhythm helps structure the improvisations and allows the trio to range farther from the folk aspects of the primary melodies. These are the tracks, such as the long Athenaeum take of "Dowry Song," that can verge closest to jazz—only in brief flashes—flirting momentarily with a bluesy chord progression or syncopated figure, able to snap back at the call of the motif. But while these musicians with deep jazz credentials are creating music that isn't overtly jazzy, they bring some of its newer tools to bear on an older realm of music that was rooted in improvisation. "Carol" from Transylvanian Folk Songs develops a beautiful, rippling quality like light on water; it resurfaces in a knottier form on Cantica Profana as "Dark Woods," night music possessing the character of its new name. Ban's elegiac but resolute piano from "Bitter Love Song" becomes muted and percussive in its reimagining as "Evening in the Village," where Suman's bass clarinet and Maneri's viola are a rich embroidery of sound, stitched in braided patterns. Some songs touch only lightly upon their founding melodies, inaugural seeds that warmly house the essence and energy for the trio's new growth.
The music across these albums is held in a series of tensions: it contains that kernel of its originary material, but at the same time can feel distant from the vocal tradition that inspired it. It doesn't sound like something that would be sung in the village square, but it can also sound radical in the context of the concert halls and churches it was performed in. Too well-dressed to be free improvisation, too tousled for classical music. Maneri and Surman both work around the harmonic edges, straying into microtonal realms that are a natural component of many folk musics but can give an alien sheen to chamber music. Ban is a pianist of beautiful clarity, but he can also be slyly non-linear, even his comping at times subverting tidy resolution, like his staccato pressure building in "Violin Song II."
There's a risk, as this music resounds within the frescoed dome of the Athenaeum, that it becomes divorced from that provincial spirit that originally shaped it. This concerned Bartók, too. Alex Ross noted that he "acknowledged the gap between what urban listeners considered folkish […] and what peasants were actually singing and playing." Ban quotes Bartók directly in the liner notes, where he claims that the "harsh characters" of musical notation "cannot possibly render […] all the pulsing life of peasant-music." But Cantica Profanaand The Athenaeum Concert are not ethnographic or nostalgic exercises; the goal is not imitation or resurrection. The trio stand near a familiar old starting point and set off a different way, where the path isn't so well-defined—or is waiting to be cut. There’s often something haunting in the result, perhaps conjured in the resonance of these concert spaces, where the trio becomes a medium for something quite ghostly, tuned into an ancient and fragmented signal, orphic melodies fleetingly brought into focus, glimpses through the thickets.
As these ethereal melodies surface in the developing improvisations—just listen to the yearning when the theme finally emerges in "First Return" and "Last Return"—I find myself marveling: how does this music, abstracted so many steps from its source, so strongly retain its vital character? The trio never neglects its emotional core. Improvisation becomes the engine of that timeless emotive content. That pulsing life. It's a most difficult thing: to catch hold of those deep-rooted musical qualities that feel universal and then make them sound like something we haven't heard before.












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