The classical saxophone album often appears in one of two basic formats. First, there’s the variety-pack version, which blends core repertoire and established competition test pieces with familiar tunes (tastefully arranged) alongside perhaps a ‘wild card’ in the form of a newly commissioned piece. The second (and arguably more creative) approach involves connecting the album’s material via a central strand, concept or core theme. Jess Gillam’s debut album ‘Rise’ (6/19) belonged very much to the former. ‘Time’ is more in the spirit of the latter, and its success is largely due to Gillam and her ensemble’s ability to shine the spotlight in a largely positive way on to the music itself.

According to Gillam, ‘Time’ reflects ‘the flow of energy and activity throughout a single day’, although other themes are never far from the surface, such as our need to reconnect with the natural order of things. In fact, nature exerts an ever-present force over the album, as heard in the opening two tracks: Gillam’s yearning soprano saxophone in Meredith Monk’s Early Morning Melody slipping almost unnoticeably into the soft-tinged, ambient-minimalist sound world of Luke Howard’s Dappled Light, strings pressing gently against swaying figures in the piano.

More lazy-Sunday-morning-lie-in than your typical weekday alarm-clock-shattering-wakeup-call, ‘Time’ only springs into action with Anna Meredith’s infectiously funky indie-pop-meets-classical Bubble Gun, followed by Michael Nyman’s equally energetic Where the Bee Dances. Gillam’s now familiar rendition of Nyman’s single-movement concerto may lack the power and projection of John Harle’s original recording with Ivor Bolton and the Bournemouth Sinfonietta (Argo, 7/92), but makes up in terms of ice-cool clarity. Aided by a crisp, taut performance from Nicholas Collon and the Aurora Orchestra, Gillam’s agile soprano saxophone soars impressively throughout the middle section before gliding gracefully in and around a hive of textural activity that builds up to a frenetic ending.

Björk’s jazz-infused ‘Venus as a Boy’ notwithstanding, the vocal arrangements (Thom York’s ‘Suspirium’ and James Blake’s ‘Retrograde’) are on the whole less convincing, certainly more literal-sounding than the instrumental translations (mainly violin to saxophone). Comprising Max Richter’s ethereal On the Nature of Daylight and Joby Talbot’s haunting Transit of Venus, these instrumental versions provide Gillam with more space to shape time with an instinct for the music that she alone manages to bring to her instrument.