"Each something is a celebration of the nothing that supports it." --John Cage

After thirteen years and five records, the Marin County-based band Zero has finally released its eponymous album. The title seems appropriate: the disc sounds like the essence of Zero today, though it takes nearly an hour-long recording with ten songs to do it. A solid introduction to the band, the CD commands attention: far from background music, it features the Zero hallmarks of clarity, intelligence and feeling - thoughtfulness and depth, really - which provide a powerful, well-matched underpinning and superstructure to lyricist Robert Hunter’s studious lines.

The second of the band’s recordings to feature the words of the poet and former Grateful Dead lyricist, Zero features eight new Hunter compositions, and it should delight and relieve his own fans to hear that time hasn’t diminished his eye or ear. And he still has impeccable taste in choosing collaborators. For Zero, famed for years as a favorite musicians’ band and perhaps the pre-eminent jazz-rock explorers in the Bay Area scene, the disc has the feeling of a change in direction, though it really only reflects the broader, more organic development they’ve been driving and refining since their 1992 recorded-live offering, Chance In A Million.

Those who have been keeping up with Zero lately will appreciate why the album opens with Pits o’ Thunder, a concert showpiece for the band’s distinctive freeform jams. Live, this song always seems to get spun into realms far above and outside the funky, syncopated opening, though it can emerge from just as ethereal and gossamer contexts as well. A great funk groove, Pits is a classic example of the band’s attitude towards arrangement: they maintain a clarity of instrument voice that belies the complexity of their interaction - it shows intelligence, a high weird sense of melody, and a propulsive, irresistible beat.

Zero plays with structure and arrangement constantly, making concerts exercises in divination - where are they going, is that a fragment, what are they going into - and here, they take a traditional verse-chorus-verse-chorus song and add some nice touches, such as fine backing vocals (courtesy of Diana Mangano of the current incarnation of Jefferson Starship), which subtly subvert your expectations as they fulfill the song’s musical promises.

Hunter’s words describe a worn-down character, an urban casualty whose wanderings mix the gritty with the mythic, in an On the Road-style grail search for enlightenment and redemption. As the song unfolds it tumbles into abstraction, the images evoking more and more of the blasted landscape that is destroying the narrator, and providing the energy that is driving the song. Fans will delight in Hunter’s distinctive poetic flourishes to lighten the armageddonism - "Down in the valley of greased blue lightning,/ Under a flame-out sun,/ Dance with the bag man’s blacked-eyed daughter on the head of a conga drum" - but it also has the feel of Hunter’s obliquely cautionary lyrics that provided Deadheads with endless hours of speculation and rumination.

The production is quite good. A nice reminder in the booklet points out that the disk was cut directly, without overdubs, a process which does an excellent job of capturing how tight and refined their sound is live. Headphone addicts may be slightly put off by some of the rough edges left in - a solo that feels cut off, a fade out that sounds premature - but if anything, even these details fit the feel of the band, whose quirkiness and prolific jamming probably yielded takes that didn't overlap much beyond the lyrics.

Zero is not a concept album, but the sequencing fits the songs together in a way that suggests broader themes and motifs. Moving from the harshness of the musical and lyrical terrain described by Pits to the sweetness of Van Morrison’s Friday’s Child was an especially good sequencing decision. Both Hunter and Morrison are describing loss ("And you left your home"), longing and redemption, even down to the imagery of wandering and destruction and hope: "And you built all your castles in the sun/ And you knocked them down, each and every one." Not surprisingly, the song gets a sympathetic and affectionate treatment, a characteristic of Zero’s attitude towards cover songs: they like to delve deeper into a song’s core, trying to tease out even more of the intent and context. Incredulous Hendrix fans who hear their reading of Little Wing tend to become disciples on the spot. And it’s easy to see why Friday's Child appeals to a band who wanted to work with Hunter: aside from the sympathetic themes and cautionary tone, in the end it conveys a studied lack of judgmentalism, which in part is what makes it such an infectious and powerful anthem. Chip Roland shines here, setting the tone with his keyboard and organ work, offsetting any stentorian potential in the lyrics with his unaffected delivery and warm, folky baritone, a perfect match for the arrangement. Van should be pleased.

From that ringing, glorious final crescendo in Friday’s Child it is a perfect drop down to something soft and simple, which is what "Roll Me Over" provides. A ballad, pure and slow, this meshes classic Hunter lyricism with a melody that twists from sweet to mournful to plaintive to anguished, in easy sweeps that showcase Judge’s power and range as a vocalist; he makes the song’s progress from the biblical invocation - "The Holy Ghost, the virgin bride" - to the more general allegorical imagery that follows, seem ineluctable. Hunter fans will have difficulty resisting the temptation to read it as something of a paean to his own transitions: the haunting imagery of the first two verses read as if they could have been written about and to his long-time friend and first collaborator, Jerry Garcia, and the last verse about his new partners, Zero. Their arrangement is exquisite: so many nuances, from the implied close and unfinished rhyme at the end of the first verse to Martín’s sax solo before the last verse, adding the right touch of mournfulness to close out the loss outlined by the first two verses before launching into the forward-looking finale. Some strange and intense Kimock work at the close features a sample of the tone vocabulary he has, winding through a classic guitar sound to a semi-banjo-ey twang that echoes with sitar overtones in certain runs; it’s difficult to imagine what his hands are doing to create this strange plucking and bending and stretching, which ends far too quickly.

The tempo drops to thoughtful in Spoken For, a slow, somber elegy that starts with a nice major-key intro, and moves swiftly into the dominant, somber mood, a restrained and moving set of images and musical motifs that progress from abstract to concrete, until the reference to Wounded Knee in the final verse brings the entire song into sharp focus. The first of the two overtly political songs on the disc, it also works well as poetry, with some excellent lines and a clever structural device, beginning each line with "Spoken--" and moving from "spoken for" to "spoken to" to "spoken by" to "spoken in," when the narrator has his revelation: "Spoken for, every acre by acre from sea to sea ...."

Kimock’s pedal-steel solo is worthy of comment here, since its understatement will doubtless draw some critical fire - "man, this guy can’t play, he’s hardly doin’ anything" - and only at the end does he hint at the jaw-dropping pyrotechnics he is capable of pulling from that instrument. That sense of restraint and poise, though, is one of the hallmarks of Zero’s sound - and it is what makes the jams that explode all their limits all the more emphatic.

Emphatic also describes the next song, Possession, the most obviously political tune on the disc, decrying the idiocy of laws which reduce the judiciary to rubber stamps and imprison drug users for longer than murderers. A spare, wiry melody with a nicely grunged guitar line over the top, it matches the didacticism of the lyrics, though avoiding the stridency. If program directors don’t listen to the words too carefully, this sounds like it could easily be radio fodder, especially with the haunting, Gilmore-esque guitar solo at the end.

The lingering wistfulness of that close carries through perfectly into 8 Below Zero. Sad, sweet and gentle, this is an archetypal folk-rock ballad, with classically graceful phrasing in lines by Hunter and an equally spare, lyrical melody by Chip and Steve. Musically it doesn’t stretch out and flex its potential until the end, when Chip’s vocals fall off and immediately Bobby Vega's bass begins an off-rhythm thump, a syncopation joined by each of the others in a swirling roundhouse of keyboards, guitar, shaker and traps, just mesmerizing interwoven cascades of percussion that make you wish for just a minute more; a quick descent into the sort of controlled rhythmic unease that Zero can project so artfully, and an hint of where the intensity, the edge lurking in their sound.

And into a rollicking rock beat, barreling alongside Judge’s belted-out lines. With a familiar rock love song feel, Did I Mention proves to be a case study in how Zero refuses to follow rock conventions, even while trading on them. Some of the instrumental stylings actually redeem the duller turns of phrase as they unfold, though in classic Hunter fashion, those lines also twist out of the clichés they tap in a series of feints and dodges. It isn’t ironic: it still manages to be a good rocker, in fact an excellent example of Zero rock, from nuances like a spooky little keyboard trill to reintroduce the melody after the instrumental break to the jam itself, as close to their live sound as anywhere here, the band whipping the pace into a frenzy. A nice touch was leaving in the comment at the end, when someone says, "Ha!" as in, We got it. Yes, you did.

Sun Sun Sun (pronounced "soon soon soon") is Martín’s from the outset, strong tenor sax groove giving way to his vocals, joined by Judge, chant-singing through this ancient Spanish (via the Caribbean) folk-song until the solos begin, and here again, Martín’s saxophone shines. His style is commanding, almost importunate but with more authority, cajoling and pulling you into the solo, reassuring and inviting and teaching and challenging. Martín usually doesn’t sing much, but his voice is admirably suited for this kind of rhythmic singing, and makes a good blend with Judge's. A slinky, Latin-flavored tune, it inspires creative and enthusiastic dancing at their shows.

Since they’ve played with members of two of San Francisco rock’s founding bands, it’s difficult not to let it evoke comparisons to another - the first Santana band - although the jams here go much further out. This trance-like space carved out in the jams is a big part of the Zero ethos and a central element in their musical signature: beginning here with Martín’s sax blowing high and soft, ethereal and floating and trilling, swinging up quietly leveling then descending, all while the bass bounces and bobs over this metronomic, spartan, powerful kaleidoscope of drums and cymbals, rolling with the same fluidity as Kimock’s guitar lines, which also showcase his crystal-clear tone.

The mood of the disc continues with a slower and even more hypnotic atmosphere and rhythm, a little too weird and moody to be sweet and not exactly bittersweet either, which settles well with Hunter’s story of being in love with the groupie from Hell, woven into some great brooding, unsentimental meditation on hardship and the resiliency of love. Ermaline feels like a penultimate song, as if it were approaching the end of the last set for the night. Martín’s first break has the ring of a solo that has already been spun into its final run, everything resolving nicely, and the rest of the song swells into that same slow, smoky jam-closer feel. The final sweep builds into such a towering roar that the cut, when it happens, feels far too abrupt - the fade out hits Steve in the middle of a solo that is flowing and expressive, after a relatively slow start; two more minutes would’ve been nice.

Kissin’ the Boo-boo, another entry in a long list of fairly looney instrumental titles, finishes the disc off with a reminder of the band's prowess and roots. And it is such a classic Zero instrumental, a gentle jazzy giant, roaming and weaving and floating and dancing, always dancing; rhythm compelling, melody breathing words so clearly you can almost hear the scat singing that accompanies the solos; Kimock playing possessed, Chip’s Hammond wrestling with the bass and drums (and the bongos of frequent stage guest Lonnie "Showtime" Walter), pounding and sliding around and over the beat, rhythm almost liquid. The bluegrass-tinged ending - flavored with Kimock on a Dobro, perhaps? - makes for a gentle landing.

There are no liner notes, which is a little disappointing, but there are extensive acknowledgements. A particularly noteworthy one is to John Cipollina, a late member of Zero, Quicksilver Messenger Service, and several others, and one of the fathers of San Francisco psychedelic guitar sound. As Greg Anton said in a recent on-line chat, "John Cipollina still plays with Zero." And indeed, they never filled the position after Cipollina’s death; they just retired the second guitar. Zero has always been generous in crediting their musical heroes and mentors, such as Keith Godchaux, who first brought Greg and Steve together for a project of his, the Heart of Gold Band. For a band whose connections to the Dead have unfairly painted them as laboring in the shadow of that other Marin County institution, in many ways this album is the shrewdest way of laying the issue to rest: it says, We can work with Robert Hunter, too, and see how different the results of another perfect match can be?

After so much praise, it’s hard not to cavil about the booklet design. Some of the ideas are good - the cover shot is fine - but surely there are better photographs of the band. The layout is a visual pun: the front is a black-and-white positive image (+), the back is a white-and-black negative (-), and the picture sandwiched in the middle is a full-color tie-dyed psychedelic (0). But the art direction still fails to grip. And that is distinctly unlike the music it packages, which has had a hammer-lock on my disc player, word processor, and mind for weeks. It’s that kind of album.