Herbie Hancock
Empyrean Isles

"Cantaloupe Island" is known by everyone, even those who claim they don't know it: those who are now around twenty will remember the sampling in "Cantaloop", male members who have eyes to see will remember Rossella Brescia's backside and therefore, by association, also the piece that serves as the soundtrack to her strip.
Now, tackling an album, precisely this "Empyreal Isles", which contains a famous piece like The Melon Islands (something it shares with Brubeck's "Time Out"), famous even among those who don't really dig jazz, presents an obvious intrinsic risk, namely making this track the pivot of the album, or rather thinking, making a colossal mistake, that this track is its core.
All the more so if the album is by someone like Hancock, who belongs to a group of artists who, although everyone agrees they have recorded great albums and are great jazz musicians, are not really among those most considered by specialized critics, probably due to faults (or better yet, alleged ones) they have incurred during their careers, like having recorded one of the best-selling jazz albums of all time or ending up on Billboard's singles chart with breakdancers' favorite single.
But no, this is not just a good jazz album. You can easily go to great lengths praising this album.
The lineup: our guy on piano, Freddie Hubbard on cornet, Ron Carter on bass, and Tony Williams on drums, basically Miles' quintet minus Shorter; all in all, a solid and well-seasoned group of youngsters, rebellious enough against the fathers' rules to seek new paths (that's why Miles wanted them, of course).
Obviously, to move forward, one must take stock, pack the bags, and then head in new directions: this is the most probable interpretation of this "Empyreal Isles", which already from the title, translatable as the isles of the empyrean, indicates the desire, in a single album, to make music according to four modes, four hyperuranian islands, which would later form the basis for Hancock's future, namely hard-bop, modal, funk, and free. Ambitious, huh? Especially when you think that it is Hancock who composed the four pieces that make up the work.

It is certainly not an album to be dismissed with just one listen; quite the contrary, beyond deserving it, it requires numerous sessions to be fully grasped: "One Finger Snap" immediately, and in a completely lightning-fast manner, shows the potential of the group, with an exceptional Hubbard dictating the terms in the first half of the piece, Hancock disappearing at a point, and Williams doing whatever he wants instead of keeping time, the only one keeping things steady is Carter; then Hancock comes back in and trades places with the winds, and strikes with an impressive cascade of notes, the ear really struggles to keep up, it’s always a moment ahead of our perception and laughter bubbles up from the belly because this music is damn volcanic, vital, fast yet melodic, you can't get enough of it, he then invents a riff just to give a little respite and then starts running again, delicate and rhythmic like never before. God, it seems like two people are playing the piano! The main theme returns, and then Williams delivers the finishing blow. Perfect, all so meticulously planned, and also so damnably simple, that the result is more than the sum, the product and the square of the factors.
If before Carter was playing a secondary role, now, in "Oliloqui Valley" he opens the modal piece, and it is felt: Hubbard is more Davis-like, Hancock relaxes and plays between low and high tones and dishes out notes in cahoots with Williams who, with timing and syncopation, emphasizes the emotional value; natural and explicit is Hubbard’s entrance playing sneakily between long notes and short punctuations which, if you allow me, recall not a little the Miles to be heard in the electric period, and even when he decides to soar he never complicates matters too much but handles it on notes more of rhythmic utility; it is an intimate moment granted to Carter, sometimes reminiscent of Jimmy Garrison, then providing deep low pulses of high value; the theme returns, space for a couple more inventions, and this performance is also magnificently executed.
Enter the white whale: "Cantaloupe Island", and the head can start to move up and down, you can feel like one of those tall, slim, very cool Harlem guys in their purple suits with hats included, the myth is just a snap of the fingers away; the groove of the track is obviously crazy, funk&jazz!, and here Hubbard plays the cinematic card, with a deep stab around the second minute and then moves through brightness and silences, favoring the rhythmic component of his solos, until giving space to the host who, in the gospel manner, alternating question and answer, retrieves the blues root of the piece maintaining an unbeatable groove.
Simplicity, thrilling simplicity.
A last quarter-hour of attention, gentlemen: "The Egg", to be cracked; funk intro but reminiscent of Monk, once again Hubbard in the spotlight (and you can tell he's been through Coleman's hands in "Free Jazz"!), the rhythmic section is instead martial but also uneven and lopsided, the trumpet defines flashes of light where the rest outlines a plain dense with darkness; then, with clear Mingus-inspired bass, it's manhandled with a bow, further alienating the atmosphere, and from being in a space which was unknown to some extent yet evidently open, one moves into a closed room, almost Lynchian, where the instrumentalists seem to be illuminated one at a time by a spotlight, and they are all there is to see, up until showing the escape route that is obviously provided by Hancock's piano, an escape route that, while not overlooking the roughness, leads straight to a blues: Hancock seems to be telling us that despite appearances the free is still a recollection and homage to the music of the fathers.
Then, ascending, fast, the charlestons prompt, the keys accelerate, then, with deviations that make one lose orientation, you find yourself before the drums, and the constant sound of brushes on skins, then, as in a tribal rite, only the bass drum, a crescendo, a diminuendo, and as if by magic, we find ourselves at the starting point, after descending and ascending from the center of the earth.

This album isn't an easy journey: "Cantaloupe Island" is just the tip of the iceberg (and even this tip is deeper than it seems), and the other three islands deserve equal exploration attention.
A masterpiece, a summary of what jazz was in those years with a glance thrown ahead: and to think Hancock, when he sculpted this monolith, was just 24 years old...