Ben Vince plays his saxophone like a man with one foot in another dimension. His tone is searching, mystical, molten; his penchant for looping and layering evokes blurry shapes emerging from a thick mist. No stave could contain him: Even the sweetest tone might peel off into a harried bleat. If the wind instrument’s magic is to turn breath into seemingly solid form, Vince is just as likely to wrest a stray note as it passes across his reed and dissolve it back into air.
On his early records, the London musician made do with saxophone alone, looping and layering his instrument into billowing expressions of foghorn melancholy. He cut a profoundly romantic figure: One imagined him out wandering the heath, half shrouded in fog, braving…

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