A substantial research on the joint properties of a set of instruments can bring the commonly intended conception of “appearance” to get altered by codes that may be exclusively known to the musician in the very moment of the performance. The secluded place of the being where “working” sounds are distinctly recognized is not open to everybody; the attempt to individuate useful diversions during the acoustic inquiry often results in significant discoveries that, rather absurdly, might even be refused by a general public considering them as aesthetic failures.
Avalanche Of Routes positions two unique specimens of what the trade identifies as “experimenters” in the same unpredictable orbit. Andrea Parkins represents the origin of a pulsating cosmos of unnamed shapes whose fidelity gamut ranges from “dirtiest low” to “uncleanly ethereal”. We can acknowledge her accordion as a nucleus of so-called normality within endlessly morphing parameters that displace the listener more than once. The electronic traces remain in sight enough for us to catch glimpses of an eccentric grammar, but in a matter of minutes they just change state into something entirely different. On the other side, Brian Chase’s renowned proclivity to glorify the resounding traits of a drum skin through arrays of pedals and assorted devices renders little justice to his ability of designing spaces occupied by unusual percussive constellations. Chase smashes monodimensionality to smithereens with monk-like aplomb, transforming the incongruous and the clumsy in a fine blend of drumming liberalities.
The connection between such disparate jargons produces non-vendible goods in terms of aural candy: only selected segments are going to be (vaguely) remembered if one does not go beyond a couple of spins. Listeners are systematically required to reset their perceptive mechanisms as the agglomeration of textures become gradually complex, with rare peace treaties tending to the droning form. However, by allowing this veritable sleeper its due time, the reward arrives via numerous chunks of dumbfounding music, of the kind that needs no conjectural accoutrement to prove its credibility. As always, the inner ear will tell.
MASSIMO RICCI. TOUCHING EXTREMES. 