Herbie Hancock
Mwandishi

The album that has captured my attention opens with a series of notes repeated in unison by bass and horn, against a backdrop of agonizing electric sounds. The rhythm is slow, with a slight echo accompanying a distant trumpet.
Gradually, the rhythm intensifies, the keyboards grow sharper and the trumpet begins to wander. The bass remains constant, with that initial motif becoming increasingly urgent and determined. On the right, a rhythm section overwhelms me. On the left, I hear Hancock's delicate fingers weaving counterpoints to the percussion.

I was sitting and listening, but now, without realizing it, I'm on my feet and the rhythm urges me to move my head back and forth.
Incessantly, the drums craft exquisite patterns with that bass motif, bare and essential yet damnably incisive. Hancock shows no mercy, piercing me with terse, cutting phrases. He knows he can hurt me and relishes it with that right hand that seems cursed by the devil.

I glance at the CD player and nine minutes have already passed! Where have I been for these nine minutes? My legs tingle, they must move, it's not a dance but a need to shake. My right foot keeps time with difficulty, my torso leans forward only to retreat, and a series of electric shocks run through my body: my God, what is this?
This is Jazz, folks, the Jazz of that devil Hancock.

The song tormenting me is “Ostinato”, a suite composed in honor of Angela Davis, a political activist (information drawn from the liner notes).
That's why I struggled to keep the rhythm: the suite is constructed in 15/4, or more accurately, it's an 8/4 measure followed by a 7/8 measure. Fortunately, the suite gently fades and gives way to the second track in this, which is more than just an album; it's a monument to jazz.
We are at “You’ll know when you get there”, as haunting as it is beautiful, a composition where Hancock's infatuation with Indian philosophy finds expression (he is indeed the Mwandishi, the spiritual guide of the album).
Then comes the third and final track of the album: “Wandering spirit song”. The beginning is chilling: heavy sounds, a dark atmosphere, and sorrowful trumpet notes that at first glance seem to be a funeral march. Yet, even here, the 21 (!) minutes of the suite sweep by ethereally in keyboard flights, impudent drumming, and ensemble dynamics astonishing even to contemplate.

Enough. Now I must lie down. Once again, Hancock has driven me to frenzy, then intimidated me, then violated me, then apologized and hummed a playful march. Now I must sleep to recover from the contrasting emotions he has stirred within me. I need to sleep.