Would you allow your daughter to date Fages and Guthrie? Disbelievers in everything remotely resembling the regular sound of an instrument, this HispAustralian odd couple manages to subvert most usual improvisational practices in less than 28 minutes of amplified consternation, whose effects on the psyche stand halfway through a virulent galvanization (while listening, I walked around the house doing four different things without finishing one) and the sudden depressing realization that you will make no new friends if you play them this album. Pragmatically deranged, the emissions coming from Guthrie’s amplified percussion are trackless ways to the discovery of your cranium’s secret broken bones; those splinters you just found can’t be glued together, yet they might be nicely used by Fages, who could feature them on the surface of his acoustic turntable together with his nylon threads and twanging springs, everything moved by ill fantasies overburdened with gracious cynicism. The effective interchange between these artists’ personalities calls for a scribbled condensation of adequately shredded timbral errata, which in the hands of Fages and Guthrie become as important as the contextual unpredictability they ferment in. Glazy eyed, you will nail-pinch your arm to understand if it’s true that sometimes bleeding for noise is healthier than crying for boredom.


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