Mountain shadows

I wasn’t planning on revisiting Dave Grusin, but one track led to another, and before long I found myself lingering over Mountain Dance, then moving on to Out of the Shadows. Both albums have that easy, settled feel about them, like everything is exactly where it should be. Listening again, it struck me that music like this doesn’t just appear out of thin air. Grusin had already travelled quite a distance before arriving here.

He didn’t start out as a recording artist. Back in the 1960s, he was working as a pianist and arranger on The Andy Williams Show. From there, he eased into film scoring, and by the mid-70s he was already handling major projects like Three Days of the Condor. His collaborations with Sydney Pollack became a defining part of that period.

So while many people came to him through his albums, he had already made his name in Hollywood, working to tight schedules and shaping music to fit the screen. At the same time, he was building a parallel life in jazz. Albums like One of a Kind showed where his instincts lay, blending jazz, funk and orchestral colours into something that didn’t quite fit any neat label. He was also working alongside musicians like Lee Ritenour and Quincy Jones.

Then came the move that really shifted things: the founding of GRP Records in 1978 with Larry Rosen. It wasn’t just about putting out records. GRP was among the early adopters of digital recording, and by the early 80s that clean, polished sound would become one of its defining traits.

By the time Mountain Dance came out in 1980, everything seemed to come together. It wasn’t the only digital jazz recording around, but it was one of the first to really make an impression. The album has that unmistakable clarity of electronic keyboards and synthesisers sitting comfortably alongside acoustic instruments, all of it balanced without fuss. The title track in particular has an easy flow, the sort that sounds simple until one starts paying it closer attention.

Out of the Shadows followed in 1982 and felt less like a change of direction and more like a continuation, only more assured. The sound is tighter, the arrangements more refined, and there’s a quiet confidence running through it. By then, Grusin had found his space and was working comfortably within it.

Looking back, those two albums feel like the natural result of everything that came before. The film work, the early jazz recordings, and the gradual shift into digital production. Nothing rushed, nothing forced. Just a steady coming together of different strands. And that’s probably why they still sound good today.