4 Stars **** There have been countless saxophone trio recordings since Sonny Rollins essentially pioneered the form on Way Out West. But upon slipping Marcus Strickland's latest take into the deck, the listener can't help but leapfrog over half a century's worth of refinements back to the 1957 original. The two sessions share not only instrumentation but a similar sense of purpose: the lack of a chordal instrument means that the saxophonist is more firmly a strange freedom in this seeming limitation. Like Newk before him, Strickland has assembled a set of tunes with strong, direct melodis that inspire boundless reveries. And though he doesn't don spurs and a 10-gallon hat to explore the terrain of country music, Strickland wanders just as far afield to find his material. The songs by Stevie Wonder and Outkast may not be particularly surprising given Strickland's recent funk-leaning experiments, but he also culls pieces by Malian singer Oumou Sangare, Argentinean-Swedish singer-songwriter José González and a Björk song from her role in Lars von Trier's film Dancer In The Dark. Strickland's versions are in a sense more pop-oriented than the originals - in the best sense, of making a direct emotional connection. On Björk's "Scatterheart," in particular, he strips away the dramatics and the Icelandic singer's penchant for labyrinthine melodic filigrees and uncovers the soulful desperation buried within. Strikingly, the leader's own originals are just as memorable, and tailor-made for his tightly attuned trio. That communication is so empathic between Strickland and his drummer, identical twin E.J., is a hardly surprising, but bassist Ben Williams is consitently an equal partner without the benefit of genetics. Throughout the album, the trio maintains a sound both sparse and rich, with a relaxed ease that allows for experimentation but without airiness ever feeling empty. The threesome's effortless teamwork is embodied on "Rebirth," the leader's plangent ballad. Marcus' tenor is both keening and steely, E.J.'s brushwork a hushed whisper, while Williams provides am insistent but unintrusive throb. The combined effect is one of tenderness charged with an undercurrent of urgent passion, the blood pulsing in one's temple at a moment of quiet intimacy.

On "Idiosyncrasies," the jazz saxophonist Marcus Strickland is in no hurry, and so much the better. Now 30, he's been moving ahead for 10 years in New York as an absorbent and confident player, rooting around in different styles, sometimes obscuring what his best one might be. Here, form helps drive style: it's just saxophone, bass and drums. So Mr. Strickland, on tenor and soprano saxophones, with Ben Williams on bass and his brother E.J. Strickland on drums, has to be bold with his melodies and sparing with his improvising. He must be grounded because a chordal instrument won't do the grounding for him. (He's not on the high wire all the way through: he multitracks with clarinets on "The Child.") He uses five of his own terse songs, as well as others by several kinds of popular musicians: Bjork, Andre 3000, Stevie Wonder, Jaco Pastorius, Oumou Sangare and Jose Gonzalez. But he's not giving himself up to the character of any of these songs. This record, honest and stubborn, stands its ground. For some reason 2009 has been a big year for saxophone-trio records: this one, along with J. D. Allen's "Shine!" and Fly's "Sky & Country," feel like enough for a new wave. Since Sonny Rollins more or less defined the saxophone-trio format in 1957, it has broadened in all the ways that jazz in general has broadened: rhythmically, structurally and in the oratory and rhetoric of soloing. But the basic attraction remains the same: physical challenge and harmonic austerity. And all three of these albums sound unusually self-possessed, as if they're vying for place beside the small number of similar landmarks in the 50-year interim, which include "Dark Keys" by Branford Marsalis, "The Window" by Steve Lacy, "Triplicate" by Dave Holland, "The Hill" by David Murray and "State of the Tenor" by Joe Henderson. Mr. Strickland can be a conventional writer, sounding at times in the past like an averaging-out of the advanced younger New York bandleaders. But these songs are different, and this album, with Mr. Strickland distributing his intensity carefully over a subtle, flexible rhythm section, is of a whole other order. Here and there it carries light echoes - of Mr. Marsalis, of Henderson or John Coltrane - but that's not a problem. The melodies are unaffected, almost stoic; there's a kind of nonidiomatic breeze blowing through them. You don't necessarily hear the slow-and-subtle ballad "Rebirth" or Mr. Strickland's even slightly slower-and-subtler version of OutKast's "She's Alive" and think, that sounds like a jazz song. (Even "Middle Man," with the hardest swing of the record, doesn't prompt that feeling.) That's good. It's a record you can give to friends who aren't keeping score with jazz. That's good too.