Here’s a compact, effective solo trumpet album which needs only 27 minutes to express a whole series of concepts that transport the instrument far enough from those EAI explorations memorably described as “fffplschpllllkrrrschfff” by good ol’ Dan Warburton. Five concise tracks (one uncredited) in which every sound heard was produced by a trumpet; some of them sound just like that (well, sort of) but when Ercklentz’s computer intervenes the scenario changes quite radically. The record starts with a kind of air flux behaviour highlighting the trumpet as a complex hydraulic system which no human element can render more effective than that, hiss and pop as the basis for rupturing a basic tranquillity within the realm of a still “comprehensible” approach. Then we shift to the core of bionic traffic jams-cum-ghoulish pastorals, whose dissonant alignment is something that could cause serious distress to Dave Douglas and Wynton Marsalis fans. Gradually, distortion and crunch attack our aura in lethal doses but, strangely enough, everything remains confined in the appearance of a metaphoric monologue, maybe with a few psychosomatic consequences for the non-experts. No pleasures allowed. It’s all fragmented in a multitude of (dys)functional parts, yet it works exactly as requested by our stretched biorhythms. This music’s cycle is short and eventful, its dismembered body dead on arrival after uselessly trying to look attractive. After a few listenings, you realize that its inherent beauty is right there. This is the best result that Ercklentz could have achieved, making us accept an ungodly nature as an accomplished and fully structured methodology.


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