Tara Clerkin Trio

There’s something ghostlike about In Spring — as if it drifts in from a radio station that only exists in memory. Tara Clerkin Trio continue to operate in their own dream logic: part chamber-jazz séance, part post-club comedown, part surrealist diary entry. Their sound feels both improvised and deliberate — fragile but assured, like the flicker of a candle that refuses to go out.

Across the record, dub-inflected basslines dissolve into hazy clarinet phrases, submerged pianos ripple through delay, and Clerkin’s voice wanders through it all like a half-remembered story. There’s a peculiar intimacy here — not warmth exactly, but an emotional proximity, the sense that the trio are performing in the next room over, doors half-open, reverb spilling into air.

Where many “experimental” records chase abstraction, In Spring finds beauty in restraint. The trio leave generous space between notes, allowing time itself to become part of the composition. The result is music that feels suspended between the physical and the spectral — like ECM jazz overheard through foggy windows, or a folk record slowly melting into tape hiss.

It’s music for the edges of thought: melancholic, clever, quietly radical. In Spring doesn’t demand your attention — it hypnotizes it.