It's not that Jackson is such a wily or unpredictable character, but you'd think with a fifth Blue Note album in the racks that he'd settle into something that the marketing department could easily pitch, or the radio programmers cue into a for the next few mellow minutes. After all, he's not the sort of saxophone player that's partial to the channel surfing, cut-and-paste influences that permeates John Zorn's work. Nor is he intensely meticulous in examining the historical and social significance of the music like several of Wynton Marsalis' Standards projects. However, he is a modern player in his early thirties who, while reverent to the heritage (an imperative, since cutting his teeth with Art Blakely's Jazz Messengers), keeps an ear to the street and in the clubs for a perspective that's rich in innovation and grooves.

If the music biz buzz about Jackson has been mixed, so be it. At least it isn't about whether his albums have enough variety or if Jackson has the experienced chops to carry them. Instead, it's about Jackson's choice to use Duke Ellington's "Sun Swept Sunday" as a soft ballad preamble to open his new disc, slowly murmuring the song's ravishing melody lines over Larry Goldings' warm, droning Hammond. Or the choice to reenact Joe Zawinul's "Hippodelphia" as a upscale bebop swing, with Goldings' swift bass pedal work maneuvering the tune as Jackson quotes a few of Wayne Shorter's prudent phrases. Or to intensify the soul groove of Al Green's "Love And Happiness," where percussionist Billy Drummond's assertive stickwork herds guitarist Dave Stryker's choppy fretting into a skintight, funky Memphis rhythm that would last forever if the volume didn't eventually fade.

Of course, everyone would probably feel more comfortable if Jackson spent the majority of this disc reworking conventional pop standards. Like the lusty remake of Stevie Wonder's "Don't You Worry 'Bout A Thing" here, where Jackson spends most of the tune's length blowing the tenor's lower register for a sultry effect before turning it over to Stryker for a nice Wes Montgomery-styled solo.

But it's only a minimal slice of Jackson's sundry interests. With styles and thoughts that carry him into Headhunters-like disco funk forays ("In The Pocket"), robust Latin sambas reminiscent of Stan Getz ("Brother 'G'"), and unbridled free associations ("For One Who Knows") that eventually let it all hang out, loud and spirited, Jackson appears to know no boudaries. If this disc still confounds those who attempt to make distinctions about music (like us critic folks), so be it. I'll still be eagerly looking for number six.