There's this concept that critics are supposed to maintain distance from their subject matter. The idea is to simultaneously enlighten the reader while keeping objectivity in mind. Sorry, this just doesn't work for me. My pencil may show no allegiances but my ear parts seem to have a mind of their own.

Case in point: Michael Blake. I've never heard of the guy. Then I read the promo material and discover that he used to be a member of The Lounge Lizards, one of my all-time favorite jazz bands. Now I'm supposed to be objective? After learning that Blake played on the stunningly beautiful (and strange) Queen Of All Ears album? Forget it!

Let's face it, I'm more evangelist than critic anyway. If a piece of music doesn't move me, it might as well not exist. On the other hand, I've been known to annoy everyone within shouting distance after undergoing a particularly resonant experience. That's exactly what happened the first time I heard the Lounge Lizards. I became an instant fan and spent the rest of their all too short career snapping up every Lizards/John Lurie-related scrap I could find. Every time I got a chance, I'd slap on the Lizards' Big Heart: Live in Tokyo for one of my friends, an expectant look of "Hey, isn't this freakin' genius?" plastered on my face.

So hey, remember that look, because it's on my face now as I attempt to describe the Michael Blake Sextet's Amor de Cosmos.

Let me just say I was not surprised by the wide range of ideas and textures employed here. Much like John Lurie's conceptions, Blake finds a way to blur the line between strict composition and pure improvisation. While Lurie's Lounge Lizards spent a lot of time deforming jazz and blues to fit a more noir-ish ideal, Blake's material tries (and succeeds) to explore the contradictions that are inherent in each component of a selection — the hopeful melody that emerges from foreboding noise or the complexities that lurk in a simple musical fragment.

Contradictions? Yes. "Ghostlines" opens the program with Blake's saxophone weaving some ethereal lines through Chris Gestrin's vague, but slowly focusing piano chords. The faster-paced theme that emerges seems like a natural progression but, just when it seems that another major statement is to be made... the structure collapses. Oddly, this is a very satisfying development. "The Hunt" seems like its going to repeat this pattern, but instead remains far more spooky and introspective.

On the other side of the improvised/composed divide line are tracks like "Temporary Constellation," and "The Wash Away" — the former adding the coloration of Sal Ferrera and Brad Turner's cool vibraphone/trumpet unison lines while the latter brings to mind Carla Bley, with its almost gospel-like repetition and thematic development.

Amor de Cosmos ends with the very interesting "Paddy Pie Face," which begins with a lone, seemingly meandering piano. By the end of the composition, we discover that said piano was actually tracing out the melody that would eventually be taken up by the full band. Chris Gestrin really lights fire under this one with some knotty, shades of Cecil Taylor passages.

I must now report that "that look" is still on my face. I'm warning you though, that just might happen to you if you pick up a copy of Amor de Cosmos.