Hammer and Fickle A pair of jazz pianists take odd but inspired detours from tradition.

For a mainstream, hard-bop jazz pianist, especially a traditionalist like Cyrus Chestnut, an album of songs made famous by Elvis Presley makes no apparent sense. Elvis’ myth is so powerful that most of his hits are synonymous with him. More to the point, so many of those hits were simplistic, cliché-ridden fluff salvaged only by the King’s formidable talent.

But on Cyrus Plays Elvis, Chestnut finds a kindred spirit in Presley, a fellow gospel and blues devotee who once boasted that he knew “practically every religious song ever written.” It’s a surprise that the pianist could find the singer’s biggest hits so malleable and bountiful, but the connection between the two is obvious, and after one listen, this outwardly unusual trio project (with bassist Dezron Douglas and drummer Neal Smith) seems to have always been inevitable. Rarely does Chestnut tread in Presley’s footsteps, though in reinventing almost every track, he proves that he understands the King’s MO.

Take Presley’s 1956 hit “Hound Dog,” which originated with Big Mama Thornton’s nasty roadhouse blues four years earlier; Presley retained Thornton’s rawness, swagger, and blues, but he traded her contempt for grin-and-a-wink mockery. Chestnut, in turn, keeps Presley’s good nature, but he polishes “Hound Dog” and actually downplays the blues. If anything, his version is a joyful spiritual: Concentrate and you can practically hear a jubilee choir shouting, “They said you was high class/That was just a lie.” You can even do the holy dance to the clever, rollicking rhythms in Chestnut’s solo. The Elvis who was so willing to overhaul “Hound Dog” in the first place would surely approve.

Such sly transformations run rampant on Cyrus Plays Elvis. “Love Me Tender” becomes a dreamy Tin Pan Alley waltz, and a sprightly, swinging samba bounces out of “It’s Now or Never.” Spectacularly, the emblematic “Heartbreak Hotel” explodes into a concerto for piano, drums, and despair. Smith plays the snare and bass drums like gongs and crashes the cymbals for all they’re worth as Chestnut creates roaring, roiling chords and tremolos that sound like the ocean at high tide. Douglas is in there too, anchoring the other two as though they might run away without him.

Chestnut only fails when he lets trite melodies speak for themselves. “Can’t Help Falling in Love,” done smooth-jazz style with a Fender Rhodes and Mark Gross’ soprano sax, is a cheesy debacle, less for its arrangement than its earnestness: It sounds like the work of a bad wedding band. (Another ballad, “Don’t,” is acoustic and little better.) As though aware of the missteps, Chestnut counters with his original “Graceland,” whose hard-swinging melody stands on its own—and would be more fun at a reception.

Cyrus Plays Elvis isn’t a tribute album so much as an attempt to see if a cluster of the King’s songs work when his persona is stripped away. The material is still mediocre; it’s just that Chestnut’s musical personality makes magic with it. In an autumnal, thoughtful rendition of “In the Ghetto,” he even manages to simultaneously recast and reinforce Elvis’ interpretation. In contrast to the original’s weepy strings and backup voices, Chestnut works in minimalist textures, paring down even bass and drum accompaniment; that subtlety, though, matches the unadorned quiet of Elvis’ 1969 vocal. Neither “In the Ghetto” nor any other cut here is likely to eclipse the originals in the world’s esteem, but they introduce the possibility that someday, something might.

Like Chestnut, Jacky Terrasson is regarded as a mainstream player because he’s somewhat boppish, but he stretches conventions, stuffing works as full of abstraction and angularity as he can without quite breaking them. And while Chestnut’s album has a jarringly unconventional premise, Terrasson’s new album, Mirror, is conservative in format: a solo performance of five originals, five standards, and one rock-era tune. Its title seems all too appropriate alongside Cyrus Plays Elvis—the discs are inversions of each other.

Yet set lists by themselves aren’t as revealing as they seem: Pianists from Thelonious Monk to Matthew Shipp have bent the standard and/or contemporary storehouses to their own idiosyncratic wills. Terrasson’s stated will regarding Mirror is to “give themes different spices,” emphasizing the many flavors of music that go onto jazz’s plate. In showing how each tune is unique, Terrasson brings his own distinct and alluring vision to the fore.

There are some commonalities among the tracks; Terrasson’s bebop roots consistently show through, for one thing. On “Cherokee,” a favorite tune of Charlie Parker’s, Terrasson follows Bird by improvising breakneck runs over the original chords (concluding with the melody). But even as he maintains that well-worn tradition, he subverts it, both by playing the piece in difficult 7/4 time and by keeping his right hand on the left side of the keyboard. Terrasson also turns Duke Ellington’s “Caravan” into a stormy bop workout, playing up its harmonic and rhythmic similarity to Bud Powell’s classic “Un Poco Loco,” and generates a similar bluster on his own title track.

Elsewhere, Terrasson’s lyricism dominates. He imbues Carole King’s “You’ve Got a Friend” with a warmth and intimacy as an instrumental that would actually be handicapped by the sentimental lyrics. At the same time, sentimentality is exactly what he brings forth on “America the Beautiful,” which despite its troubled dissonance has a brightness that fits with World War II–era “home front” movies. Finally, after the dainty-yet-atonal “Go Round” closes the album, Terrasson delivers a quick “Happy Birthday” for his wife on a hidden track; its bittersweet quality is a surprise, but its sensitivity remains long after the last note dies away.

Mirror’s finest song is the lovely “Juvenile,” which Terrasson wrote as a teenager in 1984. Its theme is a delicate, Schumann-like romance in slow waltz form, though its harmonies take beautifully and distinctively jazzy turns. Between readings of that melody, Terrasson fires off salvos revealing his own virtuosic flash: drumlike rolls, bouncy and turbulent swing, arpeggios and crackling high notes that hit the ear like a threat or confrontation. Then, just as suddenly as they began, the fireworks melt away into the languid waltz again. The tune’s wild, emotional cycle is also a rich, deeply gratifying one.

With Mirror, Terrasson takes a step toward a more progressive school of playing, perhaps because there’s no rhythm section keeping him back. His loves of classical music and sonic adventure mingle freely with his firm bop grounding, allowing him to try out fresh tricks with form, harmony, and rhythm, even as he gives reverence to both the songs and the jazz lineage. The masterstroke of Mirror is that Terrasson hasn’t made a hard left turn, yet he still breaks away from the mainstream he’s long strained against.