Miklós Lukács: Timeless

Miklós Lukács is one of the world's premier players of the cimbalom, the modern extension of the hammered dulcimer. The progenitors of today's cimbalom, common to many folk traditions, date to Mesopotamia circa 670 BC, or so ancient stone carvings suggest. Lukács is no stranger to folk music, but he is equally at home interpreting Franz List or playing contemporary classical music with noted international orchestras and chamber ensembles. Then there is Lukács' jazz pedigree, the cimbalomist combining with the likes of Archie Shepp, Steve Coleman, Bill Frisell, Chris Potter, Tony Lakatos, Uri Caine, and, perhaps most famously, with Charles Lloyd on Wild Man Dance (Blue Note, 2015).

That this is only Lukács' second solo album in a lengthy discography suggests that the cimbalom loves company. Yet one of the biggest takeaways from this album is the persuasive case Lukács makes for the cimbalom as a natural instrument for solo recitals. The cimbalom's timbre may be quite specific, but Lukács' extracts more color than seems possible from its strings, orchestrating bright harmonics and using pedal sustain, plucking/swiping in the altissimo range and other percussive techniques to conjure ethereal tones and textures.

Beauty too, is another constant factor, and the choice of material seems tailored to this end. Lukács opens with a reading of Keith Jarrett's "My Song" that is as delicate as softly falling rain. Yet beneath the pretty veneer there is much to marvel at in Lukács' simultaneous—and surprisingly piano-like—handling of bass and melodic lines, and in his deft ornamentation. The Hungarian air in the home stretch may be a nod to Jarrett's assertion that he is descended from Hungarian gypsies, or it could just be that Lukács is paying homage to Béla Bartók, whose folk arrangements he has previously recorded.

John Lennon's/Paul McCartney's "Norwegian Wood" and Sting's "Fields of Gold" may seem like safe bets but there is nothing conservative about Lukács' approach. He teases the melodies like someone blowing a candle so that the flame flickers and dices with death before letting it spring back emboldened, reshaping the songs in arresting rhythmic, harmonic and counter-melodic ways. On the former song Lukács displays the cimbalom's dynamic range, on the latter, its gossamer finesse. Countless are the artists who have covered Harold Arlen's/Yip Harburg's "Somewhere Over The Rainbow" and Leonard Bernstein's/Stephen Sondheim's "Somewhere," but you could hunt eternally to find more exquisite or more personal renditions of either. Ditto Ennio Morricone's "Deborah's Theme," where Lukács sprinkles some magic dust on the handsome melody and makes it blossom anew.

There is undeniable emotional heft in Lukács' interpretation of Rezső Seress' "Gloomy Sunday," an achingly beautiful meditation— popularized by Billie Holiday—that evokes the balladry of Silvio Rodriguez. Likewise, the elegiac "Aura—Hommage à Péter Eötvös—in memory of the renowned composer, his former teacher—mines deep wells of feeling. Tenderly rendered, with a rhythmic pulse that feels implied rather than stated, Lukács caresses a melody so haunting it could have sprung from Morricone's own songbook.

With Timeless Miklós Lukács delivers a performance of beautifully weighted virtuosity and pronounced sensitivity. A gently uplifting joy from start to finish.

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