AN ODD KIND OF GUITAR HERO
by Jim Fusilli

There was hardly room to shoehorn in another Charlie Hunter fan at Rose, a club in the Williamsburg neighborhood here, on a recent Tuesday night. On the tiny stage, Curtis Fowlkes, on trombone, leaned against a sidewall as he played, and drummer Eric Kalb was tucked in back with his kit. Mr. Hunter sat downstage in front of his amp, playing bass as well as melody and rhythm on his seven-string guitar, doing two jobs at once as if in deference to the crowded conditions.

The trio offered songs from Mr. Hunter's new album, "Gentlemen, I Neglected to Inform You You Will Not Be Getting Paid" (Spire Artist), which takes its name from a confession uttered by an employer whom Mr. Hunter, when we spoke at the bar before the show, declined to name but described as a notable veteran band leader. This disc, Mr. Hunter's 17th solo album, represents another twist in the 42-year-old's career. He and Mr. Kalb constitute the rhythm section; Mr. Fowlkes— who's played with Charlie Haden, Henry Threadgill, John Zorn and many others—is joined by Alan Ferber on trombone and Eric Biondo on trumpet. Thus, Mr. Hunter is backed only by brass and percussion on nine new compositions that dip into funk, R&B and soul. As he ate a bowl of spaghetti and meatballs, I asked him to name the influences for his new music. He replied, "Albert King, Wes Montgomery, Philly Joe Jones, Milt Hinton, Ray Brown, James Jamerson, Booker T, the Meters, Clyde Stubblefield." That's a small list, he added.

"A huge part of what I do is rooted in old blues and soul. My playing is not a 'licky' thing. It's not a 15-minute uninterrupted string of eighth notes over something that's unnecessarily very complex. It's feeling the time. It's saying something. Everything has to work together rhythmically."

Mr. Hunter, who was raised in Berkeley, Calif., has been playing guitar in his own distinct way for most of his life. "Guitar is not hard for me," he said without a hint of arrogance. "I grew up around it. My mother repaired guitars for a living. My guitar teacher at the shop around the corner was Joe Satriani. I was surrounded by a wealth of guitar information."

At age 18, Mr. Hunter and his guitar went to Paris. "I was a street musician," he said. "I took all the things I liked about guitar, bass and drums and made it into one instrument." After returning to the States, he worked as a sideman in a variety of projects.

"I'm aghast when I hear what I played in my 20s," he said. "I'm like, 'Dude, slow down!' It's all youthful frenzy. When you're young, you don't understand the goal is to play less stuff that works better together. You don't think about how well the Stax-Volt rhythm section played together."

Earlier in his solo career, when he was signed to Blue Note, Mr. Hunter played bass on the top strings and chords on the bottom of a curiously tuned eight-string guitar, using effects pedals and an amplifier he cobbled together to approximate the output of an electric organ. A sly wit and facility rather than flash became the hallmarks of his style, and there was a quiet wizardry at work in his bands' unison playing and how well he supported their saxophones. At times, Mr. Hunter faded into the background on his own satisfying recordings.

"Your reasons for doing it evolve," he said. "You become less self-centered." I asked if having a bass player and an organist in his early combos would have freed him up to let the focus fall on his playing. "Nah," he said with a dismissive wave. "I like what I do. It puts the music in a different space. That's what interests me." Then he added: "Free me up to do what? Play awful solos even I don't want to hear?"

Mr. Hunter developed an unusual coalition of fans: guitar gearheads, jam-band followers and music lovers searching for the descendants of the '60s Blue Note school of soul-jazz. He played major rock festivals and premier jazz clubs. Like Bill Frisell, he seemed an unlikely guitar hero, one who was content to let the music carry the day.

Now, the father of sons ages 7 and 9, Mr. Hunter seems unimpressed with the pursuit of the big time. "The places where all the fabulous people go are the same as the places where the nonfabulous people are," he said. "I'm like a radio station. I can't tune you in. You have to find me."

At Rose in Williamsburg, Mr. Hunter's devotees turned out on a frigid night and surrendered to his latest foray into muted self-expression. Exploring the songs on the new album, he and Mr. Fowlkes worked off Mr. Kalb's complex polyrhythms. On the up-tempo numbers, Mr. Hunter set a walking bass line that he kept moving as he played crisp funk chords to support Mr. Fowlkes. He sustained notes on the slow tunes to fill the midsection. Regulated by Mr. Kalb's fat backbeat, his solos were concise statements—the organ sound is gone, replaced by a plucky, biting guitar attack. Though Mr. Hunter yelled "Yeah!" from time to time as he played, his performance was a display of low-key virtuosity.

"I'm trying to deal with time and the groove," Mr. Hunter told me. "That's my daily quest. To connect with the audience in a deep way, not an intellectually sadistic way. I don't believe in pandering. You have to come from your honest place."

Mr. Fusilli is the Journal's rock and pop music critic. Email him at jfusilli@wsj.com or follow him on Twitter: @wsjrock.