Excerpt from the booklet:
“Well, isn’t it always now?” Joel Futterman’s audible smile, in response to my simple query about the time during a phone conversation, bespeaks and accentuates the deeper truths embodied in his creativity. Grounded, sometimes adrift, forced to live in the world of duality, we capitulate too willingly to the whims and whiles of intervals, to their capricious grip on our intersecting realities, to their encapsulation of alternating mood and ebb-and-flow vitality. Doors of perception open and close in intervals. A moment, a decade, a century, these arbitrary constructs are subject to the Protean forces that bring both regeneration and decomposition. All contain the multitudes of multilayered feeling in rhythm with which Joel Futterman imbues every note and complex of his solo piano music.
