A question arising from the three performances the Quartet has given in Poznań so far: the concert at Dragon club was close to what we associate with the free-impro scene: lots of energy, spontaneous inventiveness, and a fluctuating dramatic arc. A year later at Pies Andaluzyjski, however (apart for the encore) it was the exact opposite: a sense of calm and a quasi-cinematic atmosphere prevailed. And most recently, here at Dom Tramwajarza, the first ten minutes were… extremely quiet. While there were moments reminiscent of a cinematic mood, the dominant elements were abstraction and a sustained dwelling in specific states. Concert that felt almost biological, evolving organically and building toward rare climaxes. How do you view the stages of your development? Did a need for a more subdued approach emerge? After all, from one concert to the next, the music has generally become less overt and less unambiguous.

Indeed. That’s a keen observation. Our first concert was at the Bydgoszcz prison, at eight or nine in the morning. It was part of Małgorzata Winter’s project, „Kultura w pudle” [Culture in the Slammer], which aimed to provide inmates with stimuli for rehabilitation. There were six hundred prisoners in their cells, and maybe a hundred in the exercise yard? And these guys — tough guys and hooligans — would pause for a moment by the bars… Piotr [Mełech] played his clarinet resting on the ground, I added my own parts, and Jacek [Buhl] and Jarek [Majewski] played with tremendous energy. We finished, and the whole prison was silent. A few minutes passed with zero reaction, but behind an extra, special set of bars stood the ultimate repeat offender — an old-timer. Only when he started clapping did the rest follow suit; hierarchy rules everything there, at every turn. And that same afternoon, for a change of pace, we played a concert in… a synagogue — quite a shift. We really did play more intensely back then, just as you say. The whole thing had — well, maybe not a nervous edge, but a sharp, jagged quality. It was a flowing magma of sound — pure energy. But later, when we got into the studio at the Music Academy in Bydgoszcz, I said something wrong, they misunderstood me, and we had a falling out. It turned out awkwardly; everyone got offended…

Was that session for the first album or the second?

The second. They had originally made the first album as a trio. I recorded my parts by listening to the material intensely — familiarizing myself with it over and over — and then I stopped listening to it completely. I approached the recording with some notes and elements embedded in my subconscious, yet also as if I didn’t know the songs at all. I wanted to achieve a fresh, improvised approach. But things went quiet after that second session; everyone was playing with other people. We met up again later, and the guys decided we should keep playing after all. This was after the lockdowns, the epidemic, and all that nonsense — we’d gained a bit of humility, and the result was a calmer vibe. Although… no, the pandemic didn’t actually influence it. That’s just marketing talk — feeling sorry for ourselves. The most important thing was that we organized certain motifs. It wasn’t just „freak-outs” — raw energy and random additions — anymore; these were concrete tracks. We were aiming for something specific: there’s a theme, and it has to sound this way, not that way. Even if the mood or season changed, or if we hadn’t rehearsed in ages — or had rehearsed too much — we knew that at a given moment, the tempo had to be slow: [hums] tiii-ta-ta-ta, ta-ra-ti-ti-ti… and we stuck to that reasonably well. Thanks to that, the overall atmosphere remains consistent. You can always improvise, but finding your way back successfully isn’t so easy. I think there’s value in that, too. These are tracks that — despite the chaotic energy — have a solid structure. In concert, we follow the score, more or less.

And how did the balance between the set material and the freedom to improvise play out? The opening piece at the last concert lasted 30 minutes, and the gear I used to record it registered the widest dynamic range in its history. During the quietest moments, the display showed -47 decibels, while at the loudest… -2! There were several sections flowing into one another — shifting from the ocean floor, through the mountains, to a dry forest. To what extent was it structured, and to what extent was it a case of not knowing where we’d land?

The intro was meant to be delicate and improvised — I think Jarek suggested it — so as not to make a racket, before transitioning into the scored structures of the middle section, where we tried to faithfully play the pre-composed piece. We played it the same way the day before in Tuczno: the intro was basically „nothing” — we played a bit like amateurs just starting out, nothing groundbreaking, a sort of 1960s Fluxus redux — but the point was to build up a massive crescendo until we reached the moment where we could finally say, „Oh! We’re actually together now.” Then we’d move into the second section, kicked off by Piotr’s long, sustained notes with a driving rhythm underneath; that opening felt like an orchestra tuning up, giving the signal, and about to start… That was Jarek’s concept, and I think that’s where that specific dynamic arc came from. There are different paths. If we’d performed in a more dignified venue with a completely different atmosphere, who knows how it might have turned out?

Do such dignified venues tend to energize you or inhibit you? How do you find playing in a suit? I sometimes think about this when listening to philharmonic orchestras — B.B. King’s bands, for instance, were always impeccably dressed; he really cared about that. What about you?

I tailor my outfit to the music I’m playing and the general vibe of the venue. If a suit suits the hall — or is expected there — I can handle it, even though a jacket definitely gets in the way of playing. And playing outdoors in the sun, sweating — that’s always uncomfortable… Another thing: I hate playing in shorts, even if it’s scorching hot. Conversely, a suit just doesn’t feel right in a club with a hippie vibe. It might seem obvious, but I put a lot of thought into not being overdressed — or underdressed — at concerts, though the latter rarely happens. If I wear a black shirt or even a black T-shirt to an upscale venue, it still works. A jacket has a certain „banquet” feel to it; suddenly everything veers toward conformist „lite jazz,” and I’m moving away from that because I hit a wall with that formula.

But what’s the problem? The shackles of style?

Exactly! Sometimes I play jazz standards — because that’s my job — but I get annoyed by playing them either in a „textbook” fashion or like some polished, slick banquet act: „You guys like this melody, so watch me, the artist, play it for you” — I can’t stand that sort of thing! I try to perform jazz standards bearing in mind that I am a slave, and playing them might offer me at least the illusion of freedom. Besides, I believe no one here really knows how to play jazz because — pardon the expression — we’re just white guys. It’s all posturing, just gigging without any real growth… Of course, Polish jazz has its history — you’ve got the likes of Makowicz and Kosz, and that’s all good — but there’s a heap of other performers playing in such a derivative way that you can’t even tell who’s playing, because they all sound the same… and so what? There’s a fundamental conflict here; to me, it feels like a sham and an act of crassness. That’s why, for a long time, I stopped playing that way and forcing collaborations with musicians who play strict jazz yet find the masters’ versions of those standards boring. Everyone thinks they’re amazing, that they’re individualists — a notion stemming from reading Miles Davis’s autobiography one too many times — yet in reality, they contribute nothing. I think that if you’re going to play a popular jazz tune, you should do so by evoking the spirit of that era as faithfully as possible — capturing the atmosphere carried by the authentic „feel” — but at the right moment, you have to break away from that and move forward.

And regarding the Quartet — you mentioned that you guys had a falling out, but at one point I told Zbych Zieliński that, in my view, this lineup had a chance of lasting a long time because pursuing ambitious projects is equally difficult and thankless in both Poznań and Bydgoszcz. People from Poznań and Bydgoszcz share a similar kind of chronic depression, yet when they meet, they find it easy to get along. It’s different with Warsaw musicians—things are easier there, with more money and opportunities. To some extent, the Warsaw scene was less serious. What do you think?

This might be the key! I once wanted to play in a jazz band and simply know how to play jazz. I used to meet up with various musicians — playing standards, then some fusion — but something was always missing. It might be a form of depression, or quite the opposite — perhaps an anti-depressant? Meaning: „Oh, there’s a light at the end of the tunnel, and we have a chance to connect.” When I first arrived to play with them — before the recording session, just to get to know them — it was an incredible experience for me. „Man, what are they doing? What a bunch of madmen! It’s brilliant!” I had their trio recordings, too. I started listening to them the way I would if I were learning Edith Piaf songs for a concert: „Okay — this part changes, the bass suddenly shifts here; what’s the rhythm when it’s so dense the whole time? What’s the time signature? What’s the pulse?” During our rehearsals and that process of digging into the details, I began to perceive a rhythmic connection and fluidity — and that is incredibly demanding. Jacek had changed his playing style, too; he played a bit differently back then. Still, you can hear the timing, even assuming that the aforementioned „magma” dominates. You’re playing hard, playing a lot, hitting a fill, yet you can still hear fragments of a repeating rhythm. For instance, four unexpected, non-rhythmic snare hits, and then it comes back… It’s like in a fugue — you have the head of the theme, the incipit… That’s how I started listening to the drums; once I’d absorbed that, I began playing with them intuitively — more or less consciously. That’s when it all clicked. It was the same with Jarek; I’d find myself thinking, „What exactly is he playing there?” As a pianist, I usually have to focus on the rhythm section — well, on the clarinet too, of course, but he always comes through clearly. Then, down in the bass, there are those rapid changes — maybe something isn’t quite even, or there’s a dense passage or an unexpected shif t— and suddenly that heightened awareness kicks in, picking up on these micro-motifs: „Aha! So that’s the musical idea there…” That’s the moment to introduce a voicing — when there’s a bit of breathing room… [Piotr] Kałużny once said something to me while he was teaching me: „It’s a good thing you play the French horn and that they wouldn’t let you study jazz piano; pianists just sit down and play, whereas a horn player needs breath, and that shapes the entire phrase organically—as if you were singing.” Just as a sound wave follows a specific process, that organic quality emerges; that’s why I started paying attention to where those breaths occur — roughly speaking. It’s important — being attuned to the pauses between phrases. For instance, you might have a dense passage here, then something different thirty seconds later — a change of instrument, or the double bass suddenly playing more sparsely… There are no repetitions, yet you know these aren’t pseudo-random fragments; rather, they are Jarek’s „alphabet” and Jacek’s „alphabet” interlocking. Since they are different people, it’s a bit like each speaking a different language while telling the same story. You can hear words and sentences in those languages, but they take on different configurations; you have to react and remember that you aren’t quite the brilliant musician you might think you are — you’re simply playing with others, and sometimes you have to put your ego aside. I step back like that because, for me, music is an object in itself. The music we play in concert with the Quartet is a „work,” and I am merely a performer; I play for the others. The goal is for us to focus together on the sonic events.

What you said is important. Two elements struck me as fundamental: absolute, mutual attentiveness and a commitment to maintaining a diversity of voices. In those moments — specifically with Jacek and Jarek — it was as if you were hooking onto them with a fishing line, steering your own parts toward theirs. The impulse to create a cohesive whole always prevailed — unlike with many free-jazz musicians who often play against one another. That’s something I eventually found off-putting.

Well, it’s hard to disagree. I appreciate you perceiving it that way; it’s truly rare for someone to hear that. That is indeed how it is. And another thing… I can’t stand that kind of playing: „Okay, so what now? You play something, I play something, someone else plays something — we just play away, and call it ‚free’.” And we hear it all on the same level: a fan, a lady at a table, a bird outside the window, and — on that same plane — the double bass, drums, clarinet, and piano; a situation just unfolds… That kind of cacophony isn’t music. We’re doing this together, and it has to be coherent, even if the music is improvised in the moment. And playing against each other… Playing against one another is something you do in a soccer match or a race. Some people like those kinds of „contests” — who goes higher, who plays louder — but in my opinion, that leads nowhere; once you start asking those kinds of questions, you’re no longer talking about art.

There are certain categories of events — disappointing and irritating ones — that get slapped with the „free-impro” label. First, there’s the kind where everyone plays at a relentless fortissimo that borders on excruciating boredom. Second, there’s the scattering of disconnected rustles and murmurs — a sort of musical physiology. And third, there’s the reliance on stock tricks, where musicians who are supposedly improvising end up playing the exact same concert every time. There’s no sense of community there; no one is truly listening to anyone else. Yet, I feel you’ve really become a genuine band. Did that stem more from a compatibility of characters, or was the purely musical rapport the primary factor, with personalities playing a lesser role?

Personalities versus sounds… that’s not an easy one. On one hand, it’s a bit of both; perhaps the Quartet’s musicians are simply humble about what they do? We step onto the stage to play together for the audience, not just to run through the material. Throughout the concert, we’re constantly collaborating on the final result — that sum total that reaches the listener. That requires humility. There’s never a situation where someone plays too long just because of their mood, or ruins the show because they’re feeling under the weather — that simply doesn’t happen. Playing together like that definitely shapes a person; it fosters inner growth and gives you food for thought. On the other hand, I don’t have time to overthink things while I’m in the process — there’s this drive carrying you along, and even when the tempo is slow, you perceive it completely differently. Later, when you listen back, you think: „I could have sworn it was moving faster.” The experience is different when you’re playing versus when you’re listening. I need that distance. To evaluate something I’ve been a part of, I need to hear a clean playback; usually, when I step off stage after a performance, I’m not happy with myself. I tend to think it was total crap. I’m glad someone actually liked it — there must be a reason for that, after all. I’m grateful that people wanted to listen, but before I can grasp what actually happened, I need to put it out of my mind. I need to listen to something else and come back to it later. That’s just how I am. Then there are musicians who, right after playing, say: „Yeah! I really nailed it — I was on fire today!” I absolutely hate that…

I’d like to move on to something more general — around 2017 or 2018, audiences in Poland started talking more loudly during concerts. I’ve noticed that I’m increasingly frustrated by this after the fact, and the trend keeps intensifying; there isn’t a single concert where I don’t have to call someone out or shoot them a sharp look. So, a few questions: what constitutes a good audience reaction for you, and do you also get the impression that the talking has increased?

You know, a few years ago, we were playing an improvised seven-piece set at the Blue Note, and there was a sudden pause — a silence that seemed to drag on forever, with visuals playing and so on. I was shuffling some papers around when a guy in the audience suddenly shouted, „Where’s the sheet music?!” The music was such that he immediately wanted to see the charts (which, of course, didn’t exist). Another time, I was sweating and struggling through a solo on four keyboards when a drunk guy walked up to me and asked, „Are you playing, or are you practicing?” Reactions like that are great. But the chatter you’re talking about… that’s simply a matter of social norms. When someone listens to music privately — say, on headphones — they’re immersed in the music. They’re in their own comfort zone—it’s their premium subscription for 25 zlotys a month — so they aren’t going to talk to themselves while listening. But put them in a pub, and suddenly they’re chatting away: „It’s so cool we met up; let’s take a photo to show we’re at a concert.” Or, „I’m sitting here with a beer, so I’m going to say whatever I want, and I don’t care about anyone else.” Until someone steps up and says, „Quiet!” As long as no one reacts — and people are afraid to react — and they pay peanuts for tickets, they’re going to keep chatting. But if they suddenly had to pay a premium—say, seventy quid for a burger and twenty for a concert ticket — well, then they’d make an effort to ensure the moment stayed with them the next day, or maybe even for the rest of their lives… Then they’d value it. But if it’s just a casual „Hey, maybe let’s go to that Thursday blues night,” then, you know…

On another note — you played a concert of film music here, in the upstairs hall. You made me realize something I hadn’t been aware of before: it turned out I actually knew all those themes. They are tied to warm memories from my early youth — after all, those were the days when the TV at home was left on constantly in Poland. You tapped into that nostalgia in a unique way, yet the significant personal input and the way you shifted the fundamental mood set the performance apart from a mere run-through of the material. What is it you aim to draw out of this music? You used a piano at the Dragon, but added synthesizers for the Amarantowa show — what prompted that change?

Well, thanks for that reception and for the kind words — the kind that give one hope. There was supposed to be a grand piano [in the Amaranth Hall], but we couldn’t rent one, so we decided I’d play an electric piano instead. That got me thinking: „Let’s try a little experiment and see what happens.” That’s why synthesized sounds were interwoven with the conventional piano register. And regarding these pieces — what I was getting at… It really annoyed me that musicians treat these themes merely as a way to make money just because they’re famous. „Let’s just play these tunes like at a family fair”—and by „fair,” I mean, of course, a metaphor for hackwork gigs. I once heard someone perform Polskie Drogi [Polish Roads], and nothing about it was right — the melody was played poorly, the rhythm was off… That’s when I thought: „No — enough is enough. I’m going to remind you of these pieces and how they’re meant to be heard.” Meaning, exactly as they appeared in the film — faithful to the original tempo and key, rather than whatever key happens to suit Pat Metheny’s guitar better. The mission of this project — and the album, which has already been recorded — is to play this music the way I’d play Bach or Mozart, because, quite simply, it is classical music. I think I spent too much time with these compositions; at a certain point, little ideas started occurring to me — nothing groundbreaking, perhaps, but it would have been foolish not to draw upon the entire toolkit of the first and second avant-garde movements, since that’s the musical alphabet of today. Speaking of that faithfulness — take Lalka [The Doll], for instance. There are two versions of this piece on YouTube: one from before the digital restoration and one from after. The latter is in B-flat minor, while the former is in A minor. Visually, things seem unchanged — well, the restored version is a bit brighter — but when I listen, it just isn’t the same. It’s only a semitone, but that semitone makes a difference; in equal temperament, B-flat minor represents a different tonal shade, and it simply doesn’t work. These pieces must be treated with respect so that the music’s full qualities can shine through. It is precisely these qualities that evoke the nostalgia you mentioned, and the music’s mood — somewhat strange and indefinable — represents the very essence of Polish music to me. Besides, the theme from The Doll (Lalka) wouldn’t be enough on its own without that hand-held, moving panorama of Warsaw. For me, it’s the whole package that resonates; the story flows from the music itself, not just from the fact that it’s well-composed or enjoyable to play. It’s the same with 07 Zgłoś się — it’s about gangsters, murders, beautiful women, shady dealings, and holiday mysteries. It’s not just a matter of hearing saxophones and a big band. There are Latin influences, and the goal is to capture that specific PRL-era nightclub atmosphere: the raw guitar players, the beat, the left-handed guitar riffs… Those kinds of wild, vivid visions.

That really resonates with me, because when I listen to music and close my eyes, I see images, film scenes, or colors… It’s more the norm than a disorder. On another note, you mentioned focusing on the rhythm section earlier; I’ve recently been thinking about how pianists often share a strong rapport with drummers on stage. Personally, I perceive the piano — and your playing —in a percussive way. Do you have any percussive leanings?

It is a percussion instrument. Even though the human ear perceives a sequence of legato notes as a melody — since the hammers strike the strings in rapid succession, at specific intervals and in a particular order — there is still rhythm involved. I’ve dabbled in drums a bit myself. Generally, I believe that once you’ve mastered your primary instrument to a decent level, it’s worth learning to play something else, too. That’s why I used to approach drummers, asking if I could have a go, look at their sheet music, and find out what their exercises were all about. They were always happy to explain: „You need to get the strike exactly right — come by when Marian isn’t around and we’ll jam; I’ll take the drums and you take the vibraphone.” Those experiences completely changed how I view the piano. It’s the same with melodic instruments: to achieve a real connection within a group, it helps to know how wind instruments are played — where the mindset is all about melody and breath. With that awareness, you can execute your part more effectively — complementing the overall context and structure, adding what’s actually missing rather than just playing for the sake of it. You start asking yourself, „What’s missing here?” And if nothing is missing, then we don’t play. In the Quartet, I never play mainstream jazz voicings, Messiaen scales, or anything of that sort. Instead, I use algorithmic voicings — combinations like a perfect fourth plus a semitone, a perfect fourth plus a tritone, or wide, stretched-out hand shapes — sonorities that Franiu [Bartłomiej Frank] once described as sounding like Szymanowski on drugs. Sometimes scale-based elements do appear, but they involve layering multiple scales. It’s like a magical formula where one hand plays a specific intervallic structure while the other plays a shifted version of it; the ear perceives the distinctness of these systems — and even though theoretically they ought to clash, they actually fit together perfectly.

To wrap things up — you recently played a string of shows in Słupsk. Judging by the photos, it looked like maybe six in a single day; was that a challenge, or did it require a different approach? Or did it go smoothly?

There were five shows over three days, and I was genuinely exhausted. I thought I’d need some kind of energy booster, but it turned out I didn’t. The general issue is that I’m incredibly restless after a show — the adrenaline kicks in, and I have to walk around or have a beer because I can’t calm down or fall asleep. But in this case, I was playing different material in the same venue over and over, which turned out to be harder than a standard tour with a single lineup. Polmuz, Fanfara Awantura, Głupi Komputer — different instruments for each… I had to haul all the gear along. Well, not all of it was mine; fortunately, thanks to kind people and mysterious patrons, I was able to play on borrowed equipment.

Is playing an instrument that isn’t your own a problem?

I need a bit of time to extract the specific sounds I know I’ll need for improvisation from the available palette; I have to prepare and get used to the instrument a little. And with grand pianos… one might be easier to play than another — it’s a matter of the action. That’s what rehearsals are for, as well as something people have no concept of: practicing form, creativity, and focus. For instance, we recorded that album of Polish film music on — I think — five different instruments, and they really did vary. There were uprights and grands; one had a heavy action —because I usually practiced on one with a lighter touch — so it was hard to pull off certain things. You know, when you’re recording a live take—playing it all the way through in one go — if you mess up, that’s it; it’s game over. It’s hard to get back into that same zone and play well again… But something else just crossed my mind regarding instruments. I once met this Polish musician — he played in a rock band. Seriously, I don’t even know his name, and I don’t want to. I was pretty young back then and thinking about getting a synthesizer. He had this keyboard that cost thirty thousand — back in the 2000s, that was a fortune — and all it did was make this bzzzzzzzzzzzt sound. He was really getting into it, just holding down a single note. The keyboard was doing all the work for him. I mentioned I wanted to get a synthesizer, and he asked, „So, how much do you want to spend?” I had absolutely no idea what to say; I was clueless about prices or the market. I just threw out a figure — maybe five thousand. He didn’t give me any real advice; instead, he just laughed at me in a condescending tone. This vodka-soaked keyboardist who’d fled Poland for France — because over there, they have unions, so if there aren’t any gigs, the state pays you. He’d come back to Poland to play a wedding and was bragging about doing weddings with Krawczyk in France. And that’s the kind of musician who gives you this „golden advice”: if you’ve only got five thousand, just get lost, because he plays for millionaires. Meanwhile, when Koń and I used to play in that underpass on Święty Marcin Street, we had a battery-operated keyboard that made animal and rain sounds. Sławek [Szudrowicz] drives the rhythm, Felek [Michał Fetler] handles the bass, and out come the sounds: “woof, woof, woof… meow, meow, meow… shhhhhh…” You can make music even on the cheapest piece of junk costing 20 zlotys, provided you have imagination and know how to play — and listen. The important thing is to create the kind of music you would want to hear; it might just turn out that someone else wants to hear it too.