What does it mean for music to be “live” anymore? In an era of backing tracks, digital corrections, and performances polished to a frictionless gleam, the term has lost some of its meaning.

It often signifies little more than the physical presence of a performer on a stage. But then, an album like Udeigwe’s “Live in Williamsburg” appears, and it serves as a powerful reminder of what the word can, and should, represent: risk, vulnerability, and the unrepeatable magic of a moment shared in time.

Recorded in one continuous session at the Williamsburg Music Center in Brooklyn, a venue with deep roots in the city’s jazz history, the album is a deliberate departure from the modern obsession with flawlessness.

For Lawrence Udeigwe, the man behind the moniker, this is not just an artistic choice but a philosophical one. Udeigwe is a polymath, a Nigerian-American artist who splits his time between the stage and the classroom, where he serves as an Associate Professor of Mathematics.

This might seem like a strange combination, but on Live in Williamsburg, it makes perfect sense. The album is a kind of beautiful proof, a theorem on human connection demonstrated with soul instead of symbols.

Udeigwe’s own mantra, “Structure x Cognition x Expression,” is the key to unlocking this work. The structure is the rich language of jazz and the deep-seated rhythms of his West African heritage.

The cognition is in the thoughtful arrangements, the intellectual rigor that underpins even the most spontaneous-seeming passages. But it is the expression, raw and unfiltered, that elevates this album.

It is the sound of four musicians, Udeigwe on piano and vocals, Rade Bema on bass, Joshua Green on drums, and Stephan Clement on trumpet, locked in a deep and empathetic conversation.

You hear it in the track “Footprint,” where a simple melodic idea is explored from multiple angles, each player adding their own perspective without losing the central thread.

The setlist itself is a journey through this musical philosophy. Original compositions like “Mr Sabi” and “Easy Busy” are built on infectious, groove-driven foundations, but they are allowed to wander, to breathe, to find their own shape in the room.

The band is not simply executing a pre-written score; they are co-creating it on the fly. The rhythm section of Bema and Green is a marvel of responsive subtlety, a dynamic engine that can purr with quiet intensity or surge with powerful momentum.

Clement’s trumpet is the perfect foil to Udeigwe’s voice, a lyrical and soulful counterpoint that adds color and texture without ever overwhelming the frame.

On “Come My Way,” the band settles into a warm, inviting groove that feels like a conversation among old friends, comfortable and full of unspoken understanding.

Perhaps the most telling moments on the album are the covers. To take on iconic songs like Marvin Gaye’s “What’s Going On” and Bob Marley’s “Waiting in Vain” is to invite comparison.

But Udeigwe is not interested in imitation. He approaches these songs like a mathematician re-examining a classic theorem from a new angle. His rendition of “What’s Going On” is hushed and mournful, a quiet prayer in a world that is still asking the same question decades later.

His “Waiting in Vain” is slowed to a crawl, transforming the reggae standard into a sparse, aching ballad of longing. It is a testament to the band’s confidence and chemistry that they can deconstruct such well-known songs and reassemble them into something so personal and new.

This album is an act of quiet rebellion. It rejects the notion that music must be perfect to be powerful. The occasional vocal rasp, the faint echo of the room, the audible intake of breath before a phrase, these are not flaws to be edited out.

They are artifacts of authenticity. They are the sonic proof that this was a real moment, created by real people, in a real space. It is a deeply human sound in an increasingly digitized world.

It’s a choice that favors presence over polish, and the result is a record that feels intimate and grounded.

“Live in Williamsburg” asks you to be as present as the musicians who created it. It is a challenging and rewarding listen, an album that unfolds in new ways with each repeated hearing.

It is a reminder that sometimes, the most profound truths are not found in the polished answer, but in the honest and open-ended question.

It’s a snapshot of an artist trusting his instincts, his band, and his audience, and in doing so, creating something that feels genuinely alive.