Part of the appeal of this unusual, delightfully abstract album is simply that it is unlikely to be similar to anything else you have experienced. It is not that there is no melody: That is not in the least odd in the world of avant-garde improvisation. Bernard Denzler is on to something that veers in a new direction. Even among most saxophonists immersed in free jazz there is often, ironically, a predictability to their solos. Some players such as
Evan Parker and
John Butcher have successfully forged new vocabularies through their horns, something Denzler accomplishes here on what is one of his most mature expressions on disc. The tenor saxophonist turns his instrument on its face, squeezing fascinating primitively fractured sounds. He may, for example, sport a fuzzy, airy long tone that eventually splits. Or, he may spray lazily drawn globules that hang endlessly before fading and re-emerging in some altogether different but nonetheless bizarre fashion. The trio is surprisingly an extremely cohesive unit -- surprising only because the unique colors tossed by Denzler are complemented remarkably well by Hasse Poulsen on guitars and Christophe Marguet on percussion and drums -- not an easy task. Each member of the trio weaves in and out, sometimes spectacularly at odds with the others, at other times languishing, and occasionally taking the lead. The final product might sound randomly constructed, but it is clearly the result of considerable discipline. It might even make you think of what would happen if
Derek Bailey played these three instruments simultaneously -- a frighteningly curious thought.