—LINER NOTE—
Diana Krall walked into CTS Studios in London in early 2001 with ten songs, a piano, and the kind of clarity that comes from knowing exactly what you don’t want to make. No overproduction. No string sections doing the heavy lifting. No attempt to be something other than a pianist who happens to sing.
The album was recorded over four days with an absolute minimum of overdubs. Krall played acoustic piano on every track—Steinway grand, the only instrument that mattered besides her voice. Tony Braden produced, and the engineer was Mike Hunter, both men who understood that a singer’s best take often comes on the second or third pass, and that you leave it there instead of chasing perfection into emptiness.
The rhythm section was built entirely from British jazz muscle: the bassist was Christian McBride (on loan from the American scene, but tight as anything), the drummer was Jeff Hamilton, who’d spent decades in the Ray Brown Trio and understood space the way most players understand notes. That’s the secret here—what’s not played matters more than what is.
The Songs
The material is familiar: “Cry Me a River,” “The Look of Love,” “I’ve Got You Under My Skin,” “Stepping Out.” Standards, all of them. What Krall does is something that sounds simple and costs everything. She sings each phrase as if it’s the first time she’s thought it. There’s no performance layer, no learned phrasing borrowed from a Sinatra album gathering dust at home. When she reaches for the higher register on “Stepping Out,” you hear her reach—not as weakness but as commitment.
The tempo on most of these tracks sits in that dangerous middle ground between ballad and swing, the place where a less confident musician would rush or drag. Krall and McBride and Hamilton move through these songs like people walking downstairs in the dark—each step deliberate, each silence worth more than the note that came before.
“I’ve Got You Under My Skin” is perhaps the record’s finest moment. The piano introduction alone—spare, almost classical in its restraint—would justify the album’s existence. Krall’s vocal enters at 0:17, and by bar three, everything else becomes secondary. She doesn’t interpret the Cole Porter lyric; she confesses it.
Why It Mattered
This album sold over three million copies worldwide. In an era when jazz itself was retreating into academic irrelevance or fusion pastiche, Krall made a record so direct, so unadorned, that people who didn’t think they liked jazz suddenly wanted it in their homes at night. The recording is also excellent—warm, unflinching, recorded in a way that sounds like you’re in the room. Not intimate in the fake sense (close-miked, processed, designed to seem private), but intimate because everyone involved understood restraint.
Krall never made a better record. The albums after this one were often slicker, sometimes more ambitious. But The Look of Love is the moment she stopped trying to prove anything and simply made music. It’s a record for late evening, for listening with a drink in hand, for remembering why the Great American Songbook endured long enough for someone like her to breathe new life into it.
The vinyl pressing, if you can find a first edition, is exceptional—the kind of jazz record that reminds you why people once kept turntables running all night.
🎵 Key Takeaways
- Recorded over four days with minimal overdubs at CTS Studios London.
- Steinway grand piano was only instrument besides Krall's voice on album.
- Rhythm section included Christian McBride bass and Jeff Hamilton on drums.
- Krall sings each phrase as if thinking it for first time.
- Tempos sit between ballad and swing, requiring absolute rhythmic confidence.