Alessandro Bosetti/Michel Doneda - Breath on the Floor

Absinth 7

Aggh! It’s those sopranos again! Why won’t they leave us improv fans alone, what with their swirling and chittering, their piercing shrieks and harsh snarls? What is it with these reeds that they insist on gobbling up the lion’s share of discs that allow that dread instrument, the saxophone, some breathing space?

…..

OK, I’m better now. I do admit to a little bit of misgiving when I see a release like this. Despite occasionally being happily surprised by the odd soprano disc (Stephane Rives still looms large in recent times), I can’t help but think, “Ah, probably more of the same old same old.” Unfair, to be sure, but it’s there. With “Breath on the Floor”, well, I found that to be somewhat the case though, overall, I have to say it’s a strong, tough album, quite likely to more than satisfy admirers of the two musicians, especially those who have wanted to hear a slightly burlier Bosetti or a just-barely-reined in Doneda. Though the disc begins in breaths and clicks, these sounds are much more in one’s face than normally deployed, acid-tinged and insistent, even going so far as to include a dogged pulse for much of the piece’s duration. The second cut, “Verbs rather than Nouns” (some noteworthy titles offered herein), ups the agitation ante a notch, the burbles becoming growl-like, the breaths more irritable. It’s probably a good move that five of the seven tracks are between three and six minutes (the remaining two only 9 and 11-ish), as both players arguably benefit from concision and the concentration of ferocity. Some very impressive and very low multiphonics going on here as well as it segues into “Lord Boomerang”, which eventually incandesces into a fiery spray of gaseous spittle.

Phew! Where was I? “Deux encoche” returns, to an extent, to whistling air rushes, but with a different enough accent, different areas of emphasis, that there’s no sense of treading worn pathways. In fact, it might be the improv which sits on its own the most successfully, a vague songlike structure tingeing the proceedings. “Not only cigarettes but cheese” (told ya) is the one running nine plus minutes and suffers somewhat from the exertion, meandering overmuch through saliva-drenched byways, though again those intriguing low hums occur toward the end. A plaintive whistle, almost a dirge, rides atop “Migrations”, an intense lament buffeted by wind—scrappy little number. And how could one resist a cut called, “Giuseppe Ielasi”? Again with those behemoth subtones! Again with the gusty spume! It may be more of the same and, admittedly, around this point a little of my interest began to waver but it’s been a rollicking, wet ride. Fans of both should enjoy the disc greatly. If, ultimately, I want to hear more of the obsessive intelligence I found in Rives, there’s certainly a place for the more purely sensual, angst-ridden pleasures to be found here.