What immediately strikes you about Sing Seven Seas is the sheer scale of it. Written for an expanded ensemble of more than eighty musicians across two volumes, this is music that constantly shifts shape. One moment it swings with the swagger and elegance of classic big band writing, the next it opens into sweeping orchestral colours, contemporary jazz textures or cinematic passages that feel almost transportative. Yet despite the scale, there is warmth running through everything. Nothing here feels academic or distant. Even at its most complex, the music breathes.
And perhaps that is what makes this
project feel so significant. Albums on this scale have become increasingly
rare, particularly within contemporary jazz. The logistical challenge alone of
bringing together this many elite musicians, coordinating sessions, writing at
this level and capturing it all cohesively is enormous. Add to that the
financial realities of modern recording and it becomes even clearer just how
difficult projects like this are to realise. In an age where economics often
push artists towards smaller ensembles, quicker production schedules and safer
creative decisions, Sing Seven Seas feels gloriously uncompromising. The result is a
reminder that when this level of ambition is matched with genuine artistic
vision, the impact can be extraordinary. We simply do not hear many records of
this magnitude and quality being made anymore.
And then there is the personnel. To
call this a “who’s who” of British jazz barely scratches the surface. Au has
assembled a remarkable cross-section of the UK scene; established names, rising
stars, world-class session musicians and players whose fingerprints are all
over British music whether audiences realise it or not. Freddie Gavita, Emma Rawicz, Nadim Teimoori, Duncan Hemstock, James
Davison, Ryan Quigley, Rob Barron and the ever-expressive Sam Watts on piano are just some of the
names woven through these sessions, each bringing personality and character
rather than simply technical excellence. There is a sense throughout that these
musicians genuinely love playing this music. The album never feels like a
collection of hired hands reading difficult charts. It feels like a musical
community gathering around a composer they deeply trust.
In truth, this already feels like one
of those landmark recordings that musicians within the British jazz scene will
look back on years from now as a defining document of the era. The kind of
project that, if you are part of this world right now, you instinctively want
to be involved with because you know it captures a moment in time that matters.
There is a collective energy running through the record that goes beyond
individual performances; it feels like a snapshot of an entire scene operating
at an extraordinarily high level creatively, collaboratively and fearlessly.
That spirit becomes one of the album’s
greatest strengths. You can hear the years of collaboration embedded into the
writing itself. Au writes with the confidence of someone who understands
exactly how these musicians phrase, breathe and react. The arrangements feel
alive because they are written with people in mind rather than simply
instruments.
The music itself refuses to sit still
stylistically. Swipe Right! captures
the fractured speed and absurdity of modern online culture with restless energy
and sharp rhythmic movement, while Murmurations
unfolds with a kind of hypnotic beauty, inspired by the shifting movement of
birds over Blackpool skies. Elsewhere jazz.ai
balances humour and intelligence brilliantly, sounding at times as though a
conservatoire rehearsal has gently descended into chaos in the best possible
way and is a beautifully modern piece leaning on the Sorcerer’s Apprentice for its inspiration.
Si
Vis Pacem Para Carnyx — if you want peace, prepare the war horn— feels like one of the
album’s most vividly cinematic moments, drawing on the ancient resonance of the
Celtic war horn and all the atmosphere that comes with it. From its opening passages
there is this huge rolling sense of landscape and drama, as though mist is
lifting across vast Highland terrain before the full force of the ensemble
comes crashing into view. You can almost hear echoes of ancient ritual and
folklore woven through the writing, the brass rising with a kind of heroic
intensity that at times feels like it could soundtrack a pivotal scene
from Braveheart. Yet beneath the sheer scale there is
detail everywhere; subtle textures, shifting harmonies and a deep emotional pull
that stop it becoming simply grandiose.
And then, almost without warning, the
mood shifts completely. The grandeur and cinematic sweep suddenly give way to
something far more intimate and earthy, the piece pulling back into a quieter,
almost folk-like space where the melodies begin to breathe differently. It
feels deeply rooted in tradition at this point, as though the music has
wandered away from the battlefield and into something older, communal and
human. There is warmth in it, a closeness that contrasts beautifully with the
scale of the opening passages. Before you fully settle into that atmosphere
though, the brass re-emerge and the composition pivots once again, moving
confidently into yet another emotional and stylistic landscape. That, ultimately,
is the beauty of Au’s writing. He has this remarkable ability to move fluidly
between genres, textures and emotional states within a single composition
without it ever feeling forced or disjointed. Jazz, folk, cinematic
orchestration and contemporary big band writing all coexist naturally within
the same framework, constantly evolving yet always feeling connected to the
emotional core of the piece. It is writing of enormous confidence and
imagination.
At the emotional core of the record
sits the four-part Influencers Suite,
a love letter to the great architects of big band music while still sounding
unmistakably contemporary. You can hear echoes of Ellington, Basie and Kenny
Wheeler floating through the writing, but Au never falls into imitation. Instead,
he absorbs those influences and reshapes them into something modern and
unmistakably his own.
What elevates Sing Seven Seas beyond mere technical achievement
though is its emotional depth. For all the dazzling orchestration and virtuosic
ensemble playing, some of the most affecting moments are also the most intimate.
There is tenderness in Through the Deep
Dark Woods, a melody by Au’s young son, and real emotional gravity in the
closing Stardust, dedicated to his
grandparents.
What makes Stardust so extraordinary is the way it
carries nostalgia without becoming sentimental. It feels like looking back at
somebody or somewhere that once meant everything to you, but through softened
light, where the sharp edges have disappeared and only atmosphere remains.
There is romance in it, of course, but also loneliness. A kind of quiet
acceptance that some moments are too beautiful to hold onto forever.
These quieter moments stop the album
becoming overwhelmed by its own scale and instead remind you that behind all
the charts, arrangements and orchestral detail is a composer writing from
somewhere deeply human.
There is also something quietly
important about this record arriving now. British jazz has rarely felt more
vibrant, but Sing
Seven Seas manages
to capture that moment without sounding fashionable or transient. It bridges
generations beautifully; musicians rooted in tradition sitting alongside
younger voices reshaping where jazz can go next. In many ways the album feels
like a snapshot of the current UK scene at its absolute peak: fearless,
collaborative, technically extraordinary and emotionally open.
The forthcoming launch of Sing Seven Seas at Kings Place on Saturday 30 May feels like
exactly the sort of statement event that British jazz increasingly needs.
Large-scale contemporary jazz recordings are still surprisingly rare in the
current climate, not through lack of ambition, but because projects of this
scale demand enormous logistical, technical and financial commitment. That is
what makes Callum Au’s vision feel so important here. Bringing a full big band
into Hall One for the official album launch transforms this from a simple
concert into something much closer to an occasion — a celebration of orchestral
jazz writing that embraces cinematic sweep, colour and movement. Even the
imagery surrounding Sing Seven Seas hints at that sense of adventure and
unpredictability, suggesting music that moves like tides themselves: powerful,
shifting and impossible to pin down in one emotional space. In a time where so
much music is built for immediacy and brevity, there is something quietly
defiant about an artist committing to a project this expansive.
More than anything, Sing Seven Seas feels like the sound of Callum Au
stepping fully into his own voice. Not simply as an arranger for other people’s
visions, but as a composer with something expansive and lasting to say. This is
music made with enormous care, ambition and heart, and one suspects it will
still reveal new details years from now. Glenn
Wright
Digital and 2CD: 5 June 2026
3 LP Vinyl: 12 June 2026
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