Flânerie, to condense Brian Morton's erudite sleeve note, celebrates the chance encounters of urban life. For Charles Baudelaire, one of flânerie's greatest exponents, this involved throwing the occasional custard pie. But for tenor saxophonist Michael Adkins, the snatched sounds, glimpsed sights and unexpected meetings of city life are best captured by a freely improvising quartet. He organises his material into two loosely connected suites, titled ‘First Walk’ and ‘Second Walk’. Both ‘walks’ feature sparse melodic themes played by Adkins' tenor sax and moods which rarely resolve. And each track develops at an unhurried pace that focuses on the improvised details of the band's collective sound. Any band with Larry Grenadier and the late Paul Motian in the engine room is going to sound good. Here, Motian's swishes and hisses swirl seductively round Grenadier's positive attack and forward-thinking lines and the two musicians combine to create a sensuous, ever-changing elliptic pulse. And pianist Russ Lossing, adding to the flow, fleshes out the group's texture with almost romantic lush support. But with tenor taking lead, the focus is on the composite tone and floaty phrasing of Adkin's tenor sax. Wispy high notes, a breathy lower register and growls and slurs are par for the course. And there's a deliberate hesitancy to Adkins across-the-pulse lines that opens a window on Grenadier and Motian's masterclass. Their uncanny empathy is clearest on the opener, the piano trio ‘Archives’, and never lets up. It is the album's greatest strength.