So you think you know something about distortion. No, not that distortion; I mean the malformation of the (apparent) logic of a sonic communion. Two musicians meet, starting an interchange; that argument will surely work if the audience receives those propositions as a “harmony” of sorts. Right?

Very wrong. Mazen Kerbaj and Toshimaru Nakamura have been at the forefront of the uncustomary for decades now; they do not need us to dissect their functionalities anymore, and do not speak of them. These unpremeditated actions are replete with deviant acoustic exhalations, wacky frequencies, congenital development of erratic rhythms, remote codes that cannot be cracked if not by instinct.

Basically, the kind of stuff that drives regular folks crazy.

This behavioral anti-pattern is what actually may rescue a poor man stuck in the mud of hypothetical “intelligence”, slowly drowning in the quagmire that pushes the unfortunate to seek “answers” everywhere. In absence of which – given the eternal incapability of accepting the evident limitations of the fleshy machine – unearthly ideologies are fabricated as straws to clutch at when dementia is incontrovertibly approaching.

Back to our protagonists. At this point the instrumentation employed – altered trumpet and no-input mixing board – are but a caption to a picture of extreme intricacy. No, wait, it is instead quite easy: it’s “noise”.

Who you called “noise”? One figures scathing particles, inharmonic eruptions and the ferocity of feedback violently choking the hoodwinked being who needed to pontificate on what is veracious and what is not – in music and beyond. Yes: someone keeps defining gratuitous consonance for the crowd as “music”; they were taught that way. Accordingly, the tubist of a symphonic orchestra who can read a score but not create anything on the spot is more “musician” than this pair of explorers.

Therefore – for the aforementioned conventional logic – this album consists of mere racket.

It’s not important; certainly not for us. Kerbaj and Nakamura prove their mettle with the only required means: substance. They’re in total control of what is happening during an ear-cleansing annihilation of every artificially rational frame of mind. At the end of the process, everything we have absorbed is – as always – totally unambiguous. The vision is clear, the gears once again shifted towards the core of the matter.

In the background, the meaningless assurances of a “perfection” besmirched by greasy droplets of putrescent materiality are still ricocheting.

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