
Truth in tray card copy applies to this one, but it’s far from simply a scorched earth and excoriated ear canal affair. Mats Gustafsson thrives in settings that are at once collaborative and combative. A tailored punk ethos runs thick in his thinking right alongside a healthy if idiosyncratic mingling of respect and irreverence for the jazz tradition (see his “jazz is dead” stump speech here). The quartet of Lithuanian improvisers on hand for this particular meeting exudes a similar collective temperament. Bassist Eugenijus Kanevicius joins drummers Arkadijus Gotesmanas and Marijus Aleksa in forming a formidable rhythmic analogue to the amassed reeds. Like Gustafsson, multi-reedist Liudas Mockunas reveals himself under the heavy influence of the Brötzmann vernacular. It comes out most volubly in the wounded battle cries that erupt when he hoists the heavier of his horns, but his voice on soprano has pointed piquancy too.
All four of the performance’s tracks dispense with formal names in favor of parentheses subtitles. The 30+ minute opening piece delivers in spates of rigorous reed-flexing including a tenor and baritone lung purge over a cavalcade from warring drum kits. A barrage on flutter tonguing on dual baritones follows, falling off for a focus on the rhythm instruments sans horns. Various tag teams ensue including sharply etched segments for Gustafsson’s slide saxophone and fluteophone bracketed by more percussive clamor. The variety in Mockuna’s arsenal is an immediate plus, pulling the piece out of predictability and giving Gustafsson a moving target. The drummers occasionally collide and cancel each other out but most of the action unfolds with a welcome attention to dynamics, building to a cathartic avalanche finish.
Switching gears somewhat, “(We Don’t Remember)” and “(Shield)” open as extended forums for bass and drums, respectively. Kanevicius invests his string manipulations with a surprising vulnerability, their brittle tonalities almost mirroring those of an oud. Goetsmanas and Aleska make up for their earlier head butting with a concentrated and controlled tandem tumult sweeping a path for Gustafsson and Mockunas respond with another roaring convergence of baritones. The conversation eventually slides into a flurry of legato slurs and silences on the weight of a sustained drone. “(The End)” is but a scrap, signing the set off with in an abrasive, if momentary, gale of channeled wind and crashing percussive fury. Those enamored of the Swede’s usual reed-pulping fireworks will want this in their collection. As for the Lithuanians, they warrant an album of their own without delay.
~ Derek Taylor
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