Here's an unusual proposition: a leaderless, egalitarian trio of saxophone, bass and piano making delicately poised, spontaneously generated chamber music. Across four longish tracks, Crump, Laubrock and Smythe navigate uncertain, ever-shifting terrain, negotiating a fragile balance of abandon and restraint, directed by a composerly group-mind, while the lack of drums opens up wide vistas ripe for exploration. The session begins with a gauzy, spacious opening of arco bass, piano ripples and phantom, unsounded tenor notes, creating a mood of portentous solemnity. Laubrock steps forward, offering flashes of fire and grit but, rather than descend into easy turbulence, the trio drifts off into a dreamy daze full of grandiloquent piano ruffles. It's this tendency to shy away from the obvious that makes the music so compelling. On ‘Benthos’, Laubrock's soprano screeches and peeps like forest canopy birdsong while Crump offers oblique hints of walking basslines and Smythe splashes sympathetic shades. But, just as a grandiose moment of cohesion appears, like a ship's prow emerging slowly from thick sea fog, the music settles into a long drone seeded with sputtering, wheezing sax, subsiding gently back into the mists. It's mysterious and captivating.