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The subtle musical collages and slowly unfolding soundscapes that mark Openness Trio, the debut release from a collective comprised of Nate Mercereau, Josh Johnson and Carlos Niño, are a far cry from the urban stamp that marks Blue Note’s classic recordings. The five tracks were recorded in various locations dotted around Los Angeles, and the trio’s rhythmic palette has more in common with the minimalism of Steve Reich than the polyrhythmic bounce of modern jazz. Add in layers of electronica that bring to mind the soundscapes of noughties Nordic jazz, and this release represents something of a Blue Note outlier.

Although the trio’s musicians project a strong common bond with shared influences ranging from Robert Fripp to spiritual jazz, their musical careers have taken different paths. The underground reputation of percussionist/producer Niño rests on his long-running ambient jazz project Carlos Niño & Friends. Guitarist Mercereau, a new underground face, is currently grabbing attention for his control of advanced guitar synthesiser techniques to forge improvised sound.

In contrast, seasoned session saxophonist/producer Johnson has performed on recordings for Miley Cyrus and Harry Styles, and spent five years as soul singer Leon Bridges’ musical director. The canny arranger’s touch remains intact, but now his crisp phrasing is overshadowed by resonant ripples, seductive doodles and swaths of mournful sustains.

The set opens with the oscillating electronic pulse of “Hawk Dreams”, which was recorded outdoors in the hills of Ojai. As the piece develops, stirring melodies from doctored sax and guitar synthesiser assemble, merge and float away over a bed of textured sound. “ . . . Anything is Possible” comes next, with acoustic sax ruminating over rhythmically fractured support, and then the churchlike moods of “Openness”, which was recorded in an oak tree cathedral growing in a hillside orchard.

The final two constructions continue to immerse the listener in ambient rhythms, kaleidoscopic textures and flutters of tenor sax. The gentle warmth of “Chimes in the Garden” is contemplative, but the sway of “Elsewhere”, recorded under a pepper tree in Topanga Canyon, pushes dynamics to the extreme.

★★★★☆

‘Openness Trio’ is released by Blue Note

Anna Weyant shares her home with a ghost. Not the metaphorical kind; not the ghost of painters before her, nor the ghost of her early, soaring success. Just the standard issue, after-life sort of ghost. 

“When I first moved in, I just felt this presence of a spirit and started researching the building — more and more things were happening and I thought: somebody’s here. There were certain areas that I didn’t want to go into. I ended up finding out that somebody had passed away in my bedroom. And so I actually found out where his widow lived,” she tells me as we enter the studio space of her apartment.

To be in touch with her, I ask?

“No, I read him the address one night to see if he might want to go there, because it’s just down the street.”

Weyant, aged just 30, is one of the most successful and spoken about young painters in the world. She lives with her elderly King Charles spaniel, Sprout, in a sedate, beautiful space uptown, which strikes me as I enter it as notably old New York, dark wood and low lighting, not fussy or self-consciously sophisticated, but definitively adult. Everything uptown feels a little more permanent, the residents older, more fixed, less subject to the temporal shifts of the city, and it makes sense to me as we speak that she has chosen to exist here rather than in a trendier neighbourhood or apartment. Despite some caustic dismissals about the nature of her career, Weyant is in it for the long haul. 

We are meeting in advance of her first major museum show, which opens at the Thyssen-Bornemisza National Museum in Madrid this month. This will be the first exhibition to draw from her entire output, through 26 paintings, predating her first New York solo show in 2019, Welcome to the Dollhouse, and past her most recent in London, Who’s Afraid of the Big Bad Wolves? in 2024. Particularly appealing about the exhibition, according to Weyant, was the opportunity to select works from the Thyssen’s collection to be presented alongside her own, including a Magritte, a Balthus and a beguiling portrait by the German painter Christian Schad. One senses that the opportunity not only to show the growth of her own work, but also to declare some influences not typically ascribed to Weyant, is important to her. 

“There’s only one work that I really was insistent on having, this big painting called ‘Feted’ [2020] that I’ve never shown before which was in a private collection in New York, and we had to talk somewhere into loaning it, and they did,” she says. “And then my most recent painting. Actually, no — it doesn’t have my most recent painting. It was going to have my most recent painting, but last night I killed it.”

Killed it for this show, I ask, or will you never return to it?

“I’ll cut it up,” she says easily. “I’ve killed the last three.”

Weyant is aware that she could easily sell this and more or less anything else she might choose — “I’m sure I could just send it out and it would be fine, but at this point, if it’s not exciting, it’s not worth it for me to let it out into the world” — but her market value has become something of an albatross around the neck of her career, as has much of the lore surrounding her beginnings. 

Weyant’s origins are so well established that her publicist is able to succinctly list them in one brief parenthesis as items to avoid focusing on: high auction prices, Instagram, comparisons to Botticelli, selling paintings on beach towels in the Hamptons. It’s unusual for an artist to have such widely known bullet points, the kind your average person would ordinarily be able to cite about a Real Housewife or pop star, but Weyant has the unusual confluence of undeniable generational gifts as a painter and the sort of personal star power and beauty that is bait to tabloids (the Daily Mail comes in for particular outrage when we discuss her relationship to her media coverage — they published photographs of the interior of her old apartment).

Although the attention was partly to do with the spurious claim that her meteoric success began with “being discovered on Instagram”, it rocketed after Weyant began dating Larry Gagosian, the immensely successful gallerist who now represents her. The relationship has since ended, and Weyant is now with the musician Jason Isbell; she and I debrief for a bit about dating men who have children. 

Before meeting Weyant I had worried that I did not have the sufficient ruthlessness to bring up the relationship with Gagosian, what I assumed would be a source of tiresome displeasure for her. Luckily she does it for me, with the same gentle openness she communicates with all afternoon. I asked about how her work has formally developed in recent years. 

“In the past few years, as I started to have more market attention and wider attention, that’s when I decided I needed to step it up again. I also had entered into a relationship with my art dealer at the time. There was a lot of talk that maybe the success had come from that, and I’m not denying that at all, but I felt like if that was going to be the narrative, then I was just gonna have to go full speed ahead and make the best fucking work I could.”

It’s easy to see why the shorthand (if somewhat lazy) narrative of Weyant as a “millennial Botticelli” worked. Her early paintings do often have a jarring wit and juxtaposition that could be read as frivolous — she paints many pretty women, many of them her friends and muses, in a style often likened to the Dutch or Renaissance masters, but with knowing contemporary details (I love 2018’s “Sip n’ Paint”, a woman painting a gaudy Paris skyline with a glass of wine). But her work has always been more destabilising and surreal than caricature, her pony-ponytail meeting in 2019’s “My Pony” bringing inexorably to mind the sumptuous mercurial womanhood of Twin Peaks. 

When I ask about the initial development of what would become her style, Weyant refers to a year she spent studying in China after graduating from the Rhode Island School of Design. “I had nothing to lose and kind of nothing to gain. It was a really weird, dark, lonely time, but also so beautiful and poetic. I was alone a lot, I didn’t speak the language. I didn’t know how to get around. I was just sort of jogging and painting, and so lonely and so homesick. Which was so good for me, and shaped my practice.”

Her more recent work has, as often as the gorgeous soft wide-faced women, the kind of euphoric unsettling discord that makes the Magritte selection in her Thyssen show so relevant. And further, as I spent time with her monograph, I found that who I was thinking of most often was not any Dutch master but Philip Guston. The work of hers I love the most (and what I would be acquiring if I found myself with a few million to spare) is the disturbing cartoon mask-like figure of “A Disaster, Such A Catastrophe” (2022). 

The novelist Emma Cline, a friend and subject of Weyant’s, told me: “She’s a true artist — her involvement with her work is total. It’s like life comes second to her art practice. She’d rather be painting than doing anything else.”

As we conclude, Weyant is eager to show me the painting she will soon destroy, in that studio space that looks more like the room for a character in Succession to swill brown liquor and brood. She unveils it, a portrait of her friend Ariana, a painter in LA, obscured by a window frame. 

“I just wasn’t vibing with it, I wasn’t getting the face, so I thought, I’m going to cover it up with the window and then it looked shittier and so I’m throwing [in] the towel.”

How does that feel? She shrugs.

“Today I’ll move on.” 

July 15-October 12, museothyssen.org

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This morning, before his interview, Patrick Wolf, 41, went swimming in the North Sea. It’s what he does every day, from the beginning of spring until fall. Afterwards, he returned to his home in East Kent, a place where he arrived by pure chance a few years ago at, he says, “my lowest point of obscurity.” Up until that point, the London native had always been a city boy. “I used to live in a house [in London] by Waterloo station. But in the pandemic, I was forced out to the suburbs. For so much of my life, I’ve been really drawn to the places where my brain starts to rot, in the liminal spaces and suburbia, the places which aren’t one thing or the other. The black mold of my soul just crept in. I knew I couldn’t afford to go back to London, like many people can’t. I thought — and this was combined with sobriety as well — I’ve got to go somewhere where I can wake up in the morning with a sense of wonder and the thrill of looking around my environment. So, I went as far east of England that you could and found a little house here. I found an abandoned concrete hover port with all this nature. I just felt immediately, this is where I live now.”

What might seem like yet another story of moving during the era of Brexit and gentrification is in reality, a tale of survival against the odds. Between 2002 and 2012, Wolf had a brilliant and atypical career in British pop. At 18 years old, he released Lycanthropy, a shining introduction to a singer-songwriter who played all the instruments on his albums, an artist who had his roots in English folks and counterculture, a kind of feral child raised among ukeleles, synthesizers, electric guitars, harps and clavichords, whose deep voice sang gothic and sophisticated lyrics that seemed straight out of an Angela Carter or Virginia Woolf story.

That album was followed by four more, two of them on major labels. Wolf found success, played nonstop concerts, earned money. In 2012, after putting out an unconventional acoustic compilation, he fell silent. Later, the public would learn that he’d been overtaken by creative, personal and family crises. Addictions, losses, bankruptcy, grief. That cycle is finally coming to an end.

Last month,Wolf released Crying the Neck, his first album of completely new material in 13 years. Since May, he’s been touring its music and reuniting with his fan base. “ When it had been a decade since my last album, I put out a little EP [The Night Safari, 2023]. It was getting a bit too self-indulgent, the time away. I thought, ‘It’s now time.’ I had survived on royalties and bankruptcies, saying I had no debts for a while. I had been digging long enough under the earth, I’d found enough treasure that I thought it was time to bring it back and start sharing with the world.” One need only listen to the first piano chords of Reculver, the song that opens the album, to agree that Wolf is back. And in top form, with prodigious melodies and that deep and unmistakable sound, austere yet refined, of his early recordings.

“Luckily when in bankruptcy, they can’t legally take the tools of your trade,” he explains when asked about having regained his sound. “If you’re a musician, they can’t take your instruments.” During the first years of his career, Wolf collected all kinds of instruments. “The way those records were sounding was because those were the instruments around me, that I could see in my bedroom. And then when I became a pop star,” he smiles, “I had so much, being in the public eye, I kind of forgot that all those instruments were in storage.”

When he re-emerged from the shadows, he discovered they were still there, and picked them up again. Now, a shed in his garden houses a small recording studio where most of his new album came to life. “It was my dream as a teenager, and all the way up to my thirties, when I stopped having dreams about where I want my life to be and my work to be. A lot is to do with having a room of your own, really, to think. Like, the major label albums, I would always be on the contract with the creative control. But when somebody is throwing half a million pounds around, creative control also means a lot of boardroom meetings,” he says.

His relationship with the recording industry was somewhat convulsive. The Magic Position (2007), his biggest commercial hit, led to him being labeled as an extravagant, Baroque artist, a kind of colorful response to the folk renaissance. Wolf made perfect songs, wore his hair dyed red and even starred in a Burberry campaign alongside model Agyness Deyn. In 2011, with the release of Lupercalia, he said he’d spent a fortune renting a glassed-in penthouse on the banks of the Thames, just to see what it felt like to live there. But it was all a mirage. In 2015, his mother was diagnosed with cancer and Wolf nearly died in a hit-and-run in Italy. He rose from the crash covered in blood and, completely distraught, shouted, “Let’s go to the beach!”

“It was the universe saying, ‘Slow down,” he confessed to The Guardian. In 2017, he was declared in bankruptcy and in 2018, after the death of his mother, he started drinking again. But he prefers not to wallow in those years. “I put the work in to be free from that period of time,” he says. “I used to think that the power of writing would be enough to divorce you from the recent trauma of life. I realized by the end of my twenties that hadn’t worked for me. I had written, I’d made art I was very proud of, but in terms of doing the emotional deconstruction, none of that work had been done. I was still basically an 18-year-old, you know, but 32, and I hadn’t done any work. I’d just been out there looking glamorous and singing to big audiences and sharing my stories with people and being useful to other people. I do think other people’s music can help you through problems, but writing your way out of this situation — it sounds like this romantic emancipation, like a spiritual quest, but really, there’s a reason why psychotherapy exists.”

The key, he says, is not to sublimate suffering through art, nor to drop one’s guard. “I’m still in recovery for the rest of my life as an addict. I have to do daily work, that’s a way of keeping on being the dominatrix over the slave, making sure that misery is on the chain and you’re in charge of it. I’ve grown with responsibility in order to stay functional, but that involves not staring at the past at all. If you look that way too long, there’s a danger of it.”

His new album is the first of a series of four which, during the next 10 years, Wolf plans to release following an almost conceptual plan. Each corresponds to a season of the year, and speaks of traditions, legends, rites and folklore. Crying the Neck, at first glance, is luminous — it’s the summer album. “This grief naturally feels like gothic subject matter. I’m not going to set that in Halloween,” he jokes. But nor is he hiding from the trauma. The press statement for the LP talks about mourning, addictions, loss and illness. “I’m like, this is for a party!” he jokes. Lead single Dies Irae is an impossible conversation set between the artist and his dead mother.

“They are all quite intimidating subjects. I’m like, why isn’t it on the radio? I’m delivering quite a lot of overwhelming subjects. If I was in the literature world, then it would be intimidating work, but within this context of pop music, I understand if this might be a hard record for people,” he reflects. “For me, survival is like — death becomes an affirmation of life.” Has he learned something from the suffering? “Well, I think some people don’t learn and they sink with the ship. There seems to be a disease in culture, I feel, at the endings and positivity. What the album tries to address is that actually, it’s very important to live with your sorrow, it kind of creates a shadow for your job, a contrast to your optimism. The album doesn’t have this happy ending and then you turn into a butterfly and fly away and it’s a sunny day. It finishes by saying, I am feeling incredibly heavy and I think I will carry this with me for the rest of my life. It’s important to live with these things and to find a space for your sorrow.”

In his case, that learning has led him to limit his public presence. “I wasn’t that famous. But I was ashamed, and that was inherited from the way the media perceived me.” He says he regrets having allowed them to paint him as “this kind of monstrous clown”. “I did want to be famous, you know, because it seemed so much fun. Little did I know that the pursuit of it would drive you insane, and that it’s the complete opposite of doing good work. You know, unless you’re very clever and your art form is celebrity, like Charli XCX. But my work, if I look back on it, is incredibly introverted.”

Part of that overexposure had to do with his sexuality. “It was like, you’re the only gay person and you work at McDonald’s, or you’re the only lesbian in the office. Out of survival, you become more funny, or you become something that you’re not in order to develop a sense of belonging. But you’re actually not sharing your vulnerable side at all. Talking about indie music, I was the only out gay boy in this country, you know. I had unresolved trauma from being that at school, and the violence that surrounded that. Then you’re thrust into a professional context, and you feel like it’s the only way people can accept you. I had to deconstruct that over the years, and I can’t do that anymore. What I realized when I got clean and sober was that I’m actually an incredibly quiet person and really unsure of myself, and that’s not conducive to being a successful public figure. I’m out here now as an advocate for my work. It’s such a strange mental labyrinth to go into, that I’ve escaped now. I understand that it’s not about being Patrick Wolf, it’s something that I think comes down to a minority experience within the workplace.”

I’m still in recovery for the rest of my life as an addict. I have to do daily work, that’s a way of keeping on being the dominatrix over the slave

What does he think, then, of the new generation of artists who celebrate such labels? “I don’t think that my experience at 41 is gonna help somebody at 21. They’re going through a whole different set of social circumstances,” he reflects. “But for a long time, we were all trying so hard for there to be no suffix. There were certain interviews that were like, ‘sing a song right now’ and it had to be flamboyant. It was like seeing Laura Marling release an album as ‘a female songwriter’. And now the new generations are coming in like ‘queer artists, Black artists.’ I’m like, guys, don’t undo the freedom of having your work speak for itself. It’s really very liberating. But I think in a way, it shows that something that we were really trying to push away is seen as something to celebrate. I think over the next 10 years, my comments on sexuality and society are going to be quite sparse. It’s a rapidly changing country in which our identity is either being weaponized or commercially exploited. I think it’s better to be observant and see where you can help on a day-to-day level.”

But for now, the priority is his new songs, his tour, and his plans for the coming years. He’s now better prepared for success, if it comes, and has learned to enjoy living in a place where no one has ever heard of Patrick Wolf. “I landed here at my lowest point of obscurity. My driving instructor said, ‘What do you do?’ He got really obsessed with Googling me and people are finding out very slowly. Generally, they don’t care about that kind of thing at all down here. But I can’t keep that secret any longer. It’s like a nudist beach: at the end of this, I hope I can still be naked and no one’s going to get their phone out and stuff like that. I’m not insane enough to want to pursue that level of celebrity. I kind of would love pure anonymity for the next 10 years, but it won’t happen, you know.”

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