The artist’s family name is an Italian word that translates “haze” or “mist”, yet there’s nothing in the music of this clarinettist that could even tenuously make us believe about a lack of clear-mindedness. Using three different clarinets – bass, Eb and a homemade – the man interprets a cycle of ideas that straddle the majority of the existing techniques, more or less extended. Contrarily to many colleagues in this copiously inhabited area of improvisation, Foschia is not averse to letting the voice of the instruments go: the listeners are in fact treated with an assortment of sounds that come across either as weird or purely striking for the density of their harmonic constituents, at times substantiated by the principal’s uttered grunts. We perceive the vibration of the reed and the hot dampness in the pipe, and it’s just great. Two are the discs comprised by the set: one realized in the studio and dedicated by Jacques to his mother, the other a live recording. In “Puff pull”, on the first half, we’re given a display of exceptional bravura, nervy phrasing and broken scales interchanging with airy disappearances of tone. Then Foschia switches to distressing gradations, halfway through a cello and a throat cancer, in the subsequent “Phoenix”. Listening to the beautiful timbre of the bass clarinet in “Noodly way” is untainted delight instead, a prosperity of emissions liable to persuade both experts and non. Equally demanding for the player – and rewarding for the audience – the live improvisations introduce a larger quantity of sweat and blood, so to speak, but the value of these instant designs remains unhurt.