On Flur, the London-based trio Plunge working with harp, saxophone, and percussion craft a sound that balances composition and improvisation with an uncanny fluidity. Their music unfolds in shimmering layers, where rhythm, texture, and tone seem to drift apart only to converge again in luminous bursts. It’s a record that hovers between astral jazz and cosmic minimalism, both grounded in instrumental skill and adrift in atmosphere.

Listening to Flur is a bit like observing a fleeting natural alignment, such as when a row of turn signals suddenly sync at a stoplight before falling out of phase. The trio thrives in that play between order and dispersal. Harp figures create delicate lattices of sound, while the saxophone cuts through in yearning, breathy arcs. Percussion doesn’t just provide time; it fragments it, sculpting polyrhythms that pulse like overlapping tides. Each instrument feels independent, yet the interplay suggests a constant gravitational pull toward cohesion.

What’s striking is the record’s refusal to settle. Just as you begin to grasp a pattern, the group drifts into another realm sometimes hushed and meditative, other times bristling with restless momentum. Rather than building to conventional climaxes, Plunge prefers to linger in transition, allowing music to exist as process more than product. This gives Flur its vaporous character, simultaneously elusive and absorbing.

The album also resists easy categorization. Its improvisatory streak nods to free jazz, yet its clarity and restraint evoke contemporary chamber music. The result feels less like a genre hybrid than a new dialect, one that captures the beauty of patterns colliding and dissolving.

With Flur, Plunge proves that musical magic often happens not in resolution, but in the fleeting moments of near-alignment where drift, sync, and resync become their own form of wonder.