(Potlatch)

I can detect a classic after a few minutes, and this definitely is. Walking around the room, at a pretty relevant listening volume, one is caught almost off-guard by the sheer intensity of the vibrational movement furnished by the hum of Baghdassarians’ ground noise derived from his mixing desk plus guitar. On the exact opposite of the timbral range stand the terrifying overacutes of Doneda and Bosetti’s saxes, aided by Baltschun’s sampler in the generation of an overwhelming mass of hisses, squealing harmonics, multiphonic overcharges and contrasting frequencies beating against each other at intervals so close that unison is damn near, but still unreachable. Not all of this music is that powerful, though. Finesse and mechanical shades alternate in sidelight exchanges, sibilance and discretion wishing to establish differing patterns of judgement, leading the quartet towards membranaceous creations with a life of their own. Nevertheless, the dramatically pulverizing dynamics of most of Strom‘s movements made me think of birds desperately trying to escape from the fire of a giant furnace, without succeeding. Their last screams transmit a clear message to the listener: your fate is sealed.

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