MUSIC REVIEW BY Thierry De Clemensat, Paris Move
4-STARS In an era when most jazz vocalists seem to chase innovation through phrasing acrobatics or pop-inflected crossovers, Paul Marinaro's new double album feels almost radical in its restraint. The Chicago baritone approaches Duke Ellington's canon not as a museum piece but as a living, breathing songbook, reimagined through thirteen of today's leading arrangers, yet rendered with a reverence that evokes the golden age of the American song tradition.
Marinaro's voice is a throwback in the best sense: warm, centered, and unhurried, with a diction that suggests the lineage of singers who believed melody was sacred. No, he's not trying to be Sinatra, though the shadow of "Ol' Blue Eyes" hovers naturally over any project that pairs a big-band sound with an urbane male vocalist. What Marinaro offers instead is a craftsman's humility, an emotional sincerity that favors nuance over bravado. On ballads like "In a Sentimental Mood" and "Solitude," he leans into the lyricism without overselling it; on swing numbers such as "It Don't Mean a Thing," he lets the rhythm section and the horn charts do the heavy lifting, choosing to glide rather than attack.
The production concept is, in itself, ambitious: twenty-five Ellington selections arranged by a veritable who's who of contemporary jazz orchestrators, Alan Broadbent, John Clayton, Bill Cunliffe, Chuck Israels, Chuck Owen, among others. Each contributes a distinct voice, yet the whole remains surprisingly coherent, thanks to Marinaro's Chicago-based quartet and the lush orchestral textures that frame it. There's a warmth to the sound, both in recording and performance, that recalls the Basie-Sinatra collaborations of the early '60s, though here the palette is expanded by strings and a more cinematic sense of harmony.
Marinaro's connection to this material runs deep. His 2013 debut, "Without a Song", was inspired by his father's unfulfilled dream of becoming a professional singer, a story that feels woven into every phrase he sings. That first album opened with a restored 78 rpm recording of his father singing "That Old Black Magic," captured decades earlier and serving as a ghostly prelude to his son's artistic life. There's something of that same devotion to legacy in this Ellington project, a belief that tradition is not a weight to bear but a conversation to continue.
Critically speaking, the album's occasional conservatism might frustrate listeners seeking the risk-taking spirit found in today's more experimental vocalists — the likes of Kurt Elling, Michael Mayo, or Tyreek McDole. Marinaro doesn't reinvent the wheel; he polishes it until it gleams. The danger of such refinement is that the edges blur. At times, one wishes for a touch more grit, a little less reverence. But that's also part of the album's charm: it dares to sound timeless in a world obsessed with novelty.
Marinaro, who has long been a fixture on the Chicago scene and a featured vocalist with the Chicago Jazz Orchestra, understands the weight of interpretation. His acclaimed recreation of *Sinatra at the Sands* in 2018 at the historic Studebaker Theater earned raves from the *Chicago Tribune* and cemented his reputation as a keeper of the flame. Here, he moves beyond homage into authorship, not rewriting Ellington, but reinterpreting him through the sensibility of a singer who listens as deeply as he sings.
If jazz is, as Ellington once said, "freedom of expression," then Marinaro's freedom lies in fidelity, to melody, to lyric, to craft. In a marketplace short on that kind of integrity, his Duke project stands out as a beautifully made, emotionally honest, and quietly defiant statement.
Marinaro's voice is a throwback in the best sense: warm, centered, and unhurried, with a diction that suggests the lineage of singers who believed melody was sacred. No, he's not trying to be Sinatra, though the shadow of "Ol' Blue Eyes" hovers naturally over any project that pairs a big-band sound with an urbane male vocalist. What Marinaro offers instead is a craftsman's humility, an emotional sincerity that favors nuance over bravado. On ballads like "In a Sentimental Mood" and "Solitude," he leans into the lyricism without overselling it; on swing numbers such as "It Don't Mean a Thing," he lets the rhythm section and the horn charts do the heavy lifting, choosing to glide rather than attack.
The production concept is, in itself, ambitious: twenty-five Ellington selections arranged by a veritable who's who of contemporary jazz orchestrators, Alan Broadbent, John Clayton, Bill Cunliffe, Chuck Israels, Chuck Owen, among others. Each contributes a distinct voice, yet the whole remains surprisingly coherent, thanks to Marinaro's Chicago-based quartet and the lush orchestral textures that frame it. There's a warmth to the sound, both in recording and performance, that recalls the Basie-Sinatra collaborations of the early '60s, though here the palette is expanded by strings and a more cinematic sense of harmony.
Marinaro's connection to this material runs deep. His 2013 debut, "Without a Song", was inspired by his father's unfulfilled dream of becoming a professional singer, a story that feels woven into every phrase he sings. That first album opened with a restored 78 rpm recording of his father singing "That Old Black Magic," captured decades earlier and serving as a ghostly prelude to his son's artistic life. There's something of that same devotion to legacy in this Ellington project, a belief that tradition is not a weight to bear but a conversation to continue.
Critically speaking, the album's occasional conservatism might frustrate listeners seeking the risk-taking spirit found in today's more experimental vocalists — the likes of Kurt Elling, Michael Mayo, or Tyreek McDole. Marinaro doesn't reinvent the wheel; he polishes it until it gleams. The danger of such refinement is that the edges blur. At times, one wishes for a touch more grit, a little less reverence. But that's also part of the album's charm: it dares to sound timeless in a world obsessed with novelty.
Marinaro, who has long been a fixture on the Chicago scene and a featured vocalist with the Chicago Jazz Orchestra, understands the weight of interpretation. His acclaimed recreation of *Sinatra at the Sands* in 2018 at the historic Studebaker Theater earned raves from the *Chicago Tribune* and cemented his reputation as a keeper of the flame. Here, he moves beyond homage into authorship, not rewriting Ellington, but reinterpreting him through the sensibility of a singer who listens as deeply as he sings.
If jazz is, as Ellington once said, "freedom of expression," then Marinaro's freedom lies in fidelity, to melody, to lyric, to craft. In a marketplace short on that kind of integrity, his Duke project stands out as a beautifully made, emotionally honest, and quietly defiant statement.