Arrived at their second CD on this label after “Strawberry Skinflint”, Ghidra rekindle a stagnating evening with lightning attacks, hitting the audience with a solid punch to the liver under the guise of an improvising power trio which could rival the first version of Massacre (Frith, Laswell, Maher) with saxophonist Wally Shoup emitting competent cries and barbaric howls in lieu of the bass. The other members are guitarist Bill Horist – who can appear both a unique specimen and an imitator at the same time, given a schizophrenic sonic personality that brings him to play loquacious nonsense and Frisell-esque chordal swells in the space of thirty seconds – and drummer Mike Peterson, a punkish scrambler whose scratch-card style would make many “names” envious, the veritable motor behind the flexible bedlam generated by the unit. Having already quoted another famous group, you’ve been warned about the places where Ghidra are going to take you: technical command and velocity, extreme bombast and sudden rallentando just to let us breathe a little bit before plunging again into the refractive angularity of this music. Shoup’s will to emphasize and corroborate Horist’s playing makes for an awful lot of mortal combat exchanges, the sharpened blades of irrepressible anarchy ready to cut through the butter of self-complacence. No scumbled contours in this recording, only that kind of bright creativity needed for a substantial confrontation with the incipient decline.