Guts comes in two versions: double LP and single CD (the object of this review). It is said on the label’s website that the track sequence differs because of “time constraints”. The digital variant, if I did my maths accurately, lasts about nine minutes less; even so, the total duration of the pair of vinyls does not exceed 80 minutes. Better saying it clearly: if you want to get everything, buy both editions. Divagations aside, let’s rave about another salient album by Daniel Menche, who employed a piano’s magnified innards to bring forth yet more organic masses of brain-cleansing roaring racket. Depending on the movement, the music’s attributes and dimensions diverge: it can materialize as a downright dissolution of physicalness that does not allow any type of investigation of the harmonic factors, or a mounting foam of maleficent rumbles informed by sinister resonances and underground bumps until the everybody-out-of-the-house final catharsis is achieved. In “Guts One” there’s also something like a processed atomisation of the audible water-and-detritus-fall, causing further moments of displacement to our neural structure (though Menche devotees will definitely handle such preternatural issues quite comfortably). The Oregonian is one of the artists whose maturation’s speed has increased in direct proportion with the impossibility of finding letter-perfect words each time to represent the sizeableness of phenomena evoked through precise studio elaborations of otherwise raw recordings. A place among the greats secured since years ago, seemingly the man doesn’t want to stop researching the hyperbolized properties of dismantled acoustic sources. The psychological healthiness given by many of these works is there to confirm the constitutional earnestness of the being who fathered them.