Peter Brötzmann: alto, tenor and bass saxophone; Sonny Sharrock: electric guitar
No danger of getting secondary stuff as a “gift” when bad guys ripping flesh and breaking bones are involved. Recorded in 1987 in Luxembourg but just recently released, this superbly titled belated donation treats the consenting listener to a journey inside the centrifugal force of a drubbing administered by someone like, say, Marvelous Marvin Hagler (that means, with artistry and violence mixed in tantamount quantities). And yet, in consideration of the inherent infertility of a posthumous explanation in regard to what Brötzmann and Sharrock stand for in the history of improvisation, finding the words to inspire who’s still incognizant of this stunning raw integrity is not simple. Perhaps I’m also wrong in establishing a concept of ferocity to begin with; the power and the muscle are beyond doubt, however there are several examples of lyricalness scattered along the album (indeed expectable, for those in the know). Moments when the mayhem seems to stop and the dust settles a bit, Sharrock hinting to fractional hymns to peace preceding new fierce outbursts, Brötzmann climbing the sax register higher and higher – seemingly in search of the crowning squeal before the ultimate transubstantiation – then finally deciding for a heartrending yell. At the outset of the fourth section the guitarist irradiates terrific off-key chords, then accompanies with single grizzled twangs a magnificent bluesy air. In the six part, they both seem oriented to trance-inducing unconscious pulses amidst the growls and the snarls. It’s in the points where each man appears to be ready and waiting for the other’s move that the supernatural factor truly materializes; the potential directions are innumerable, the “right” ones miraculously chosen every time. They may lead to utter bedlam, or turn into acerbic illuminations. But there’s no denying the effect of purification experienced after having subjected ourselves to the therapy.