it starts with a kinda downer wheezing, a mild-mannered tremble and sigh, the trumpet an ellipsis, wheezing emphysemically.
and i’m hoping for a pleasing, stumbling eurhythmia, as i hunker down amidst the flutters, parps and toots. reverb and echo and flap of tongue and reed and
what is descriptive really feels instructional.
a sirenous blare and it all just bulges, distends, swollen and monstrous. so much doomed, furred squall from one grumbling, two lunged, four limbed fella.
the floor, horizontally inviting, draws me down with the exploratory certainty of gravity. a heavy fog rolls in. a heady fug; leaden, smoked, billowing. swamps and smothers skull. doesn’t so much dissipate as resonate.
an electric trumpet forced through a wall of amps. a weighty obfuscation of instrument, a monolith of om which serves only to highlight the submersive tectonic shifts in texture and colour.
every noise seems amplified, every huff, every inhale / exhale hangs ectoplasmic in the air. the reverberation creating this beautiful psykick hum exists not so much on record but in skull. hoofing up gorgeous and unexpected timbres and textures.
it’s bill dixon fucking with the confines of the instrument. all gently damaged beyond recognition.
deceptively, ferociously simple. a triumph of effort over technique. there’s gristle in there, and bursts of muscle, decaying. delay bleeding through into one encompassing swell.
it burrows into the hypothalamus with a slow stertorous whump. hypnotic y’know, as these things are s’posed to be. transcending through an exhaustive aeonian circle.
three tracks: one exquisite measured swoon. one enveloping slo-mo vector of sonic wave and ripple. bookends layered and tubercular, and a crumbling subaquatic drift inbetween.
unfurl lungs, turn up and out, and let breathe.