Kamran Ince is an American composer of partially Turkish origin who teaches part-time in Istanbul and makes many references to his ancestry - though one is hard-pressed to pick up more than a tinge here and there in his music, if this collection is taken as representative. Instead, one hears a lot of second generation �minimalism� (by which point the term had lost much of its meaning), particularly John Adams. �Flight Box�, which opens the disc, is highly reminiscent of Adams� �Grand Pianola Music� from the mid '80s, a madcap mixture of steady pulses and oom-pah exuberance. Performed by a chamber ensemble heavy on the saxophones and brass and the composer on electric keyboards, as well as a small chorus, it has a certain amount of drive and �lan but, whereas Adams could pull off a piece like this on sheer, giddy nerve, Ince reins things in just enough to give the listener some doubts as to his commitment. Adams may have been only a step or two, at that point in his career, away from the academy but Ince is a couple of steps in. Instead of old-fashioned, innocent-if-flamboyant Americana, �Flight Box� sounds a bit too grandiose and hollow.

The five compositions are presented with two solo pieces separating those for chamber ensemble. �MKG Variations,� for solo cello (Karl Lavine), is a satisfying palate cleanser after the opener, a rich, somber meditation, heavy on dark romanticism, that calls Barber to mind. It includes some lovely chordal writing toward the end and indicates Ince�s ability pull back while losing not an iota of deep feeling. �In White,� however, returns to form, this time owing perhaps a bit more to Steve Reich works like �Tehillim� (with Turkish inspired, lyrically intense violin lines replacing cantorial vocal patterns). Once again near the conclusion of the piece, Ince layers on the drama just effectively enough to cause the listener to grudgingly give him credit for melodic passion�but it�s a close call. A solo piano composition, �In Memoriam 8/17/99� (Phillip Bush, piano), commemorates a dire earthquake that ravaged Turkey on that date. It�s probably the most idiosyncratic piece here, the one where Ince�s personality comes through unfettered by overt influences (well, maybe a little Rzewski) and it�s a rather powerful number, beginning in funereal tones, advancing through rage and grief to a troubled acceptance. The final track, �Turquoise,� reverts once again to plangent, Turkish-derived lines (what I wouldn�t have given for an injection of Talip Ozkan�s saz somewhere in here!), some conveyed in an attractive, fluttering style before it pounds the table with the minimalist shoe. As before, the composer�s synthesizer playing rounds too many rough edges for my taste in a manner that similarly afflicts some of Daniel Lentz�s pieces. I�m reminded a little of the �oriental� paintings of Jean-Leon Gerome: beautifully crafted works, sometimes possessing a certain amount of power but suffering from a tinge of exotica, of the fascinated observer rather than the person who actually lives the life. Ince�s music has its passion, its rich colors and its lyricism, but ultimately, it doesn�t quite ring true enough.