The paroxysm conveyed by several chunks of Expurgo derives from recognizable factors: pretty regular instrumentation (typically mashed to generate overwhelmingly distorted textures), reiteration of hypothetically disturbing presages, momentous resonances. By adding these few elements to a distinct sense of “involuntary orchestration”, the music of Brazilian Cássio Figueiredo occasionally reaches appreciable levels of power. Within the overdriven dirtiness and the oppressive walls of din, residues of chordal activity are detectable to clutch at the straws of some kind of illusion. And yet, a track such as “Entortando, Entortando, Entortando, Maquiando O Composto, Desviando Da Ilha” might undoubtedly appeal to the many who regard Maurizio Bianchi as a god. The implication being that this is not a homogeneous record, not at all; psychoacoustic stimulation and just-over-average-ness tend to perilously walk hand in hand. Even so, something called back this writer for additional tries after an initial indifference. Perhaps it’s my perception of Figueiredo’s essential innocence, the intention of showing us all the discrepancies, the imperfections and the little failures without necessarily recurring to bad manners. And – not a minor compliment in this circumstance – his will of keeping things on the concise side.