Album review: Callum Au - Sing Seven Seas (ECN Music)

There is something deeply reassuring about hearing a record like Sing Seven Seas at a time when so much modern music feels disposable almost before it has landed. Callum Au’s ambitious new large ensemble project arrives not simply as another big band album, but as a statement of intent from one of the most in-demand arrangers and orchestrators working in Britain today. Known for shaping music behind the scenes for artists as diverse as Michael Bublé, RAYE and Josh Groban, Au finally steps fully into the spotlight here with a body of work that feels intensely personal, wildly ambitious and overflowing with musical imagination.

 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