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Rating:
Is it possible that in a single album you (we) might find everything from Anal Cunt to Vivaldi through Jean Michel Jarre, free-jazz but also black metal, without forgetting Charles Aznavour, Colonel Bernacca, and a good dose of healthy sick-electronica mixed with a pinch of world music that never hurts.
And then a lot of good noise, country, folk, sixties psychedelia and that touch of vintage pop to close the circle.
A work that potentially has the ability to optimize the surrounding space; and I'm not just referring to relatives and neighbors who take off at the photonic speed of Usain Bolt when you play it.
The fr(u)ition of this overflowing assembly by the [cetra] transalpine quartet will allow you to gather entire vinyl or CD discographies - which take up a lot of space especially if you're an old fetishist like almost all Trve DeBasers - and merrily throw them in the trash.
Just the first track, "Jean Pierre", which might be a deCovered Miles Davis piece but it's unclear if it really is, wipes out entire discographies of hundreds of billions of bands you've hailed until now like Saint Apollinaire John the Baptist Pallavicini.
A congestion/mixture of sounds whose ingestion doesn't even require the help of the corrosive Amaro Giuliani.
I've just now realized that perhaps the Rap element might be missing.
But who cares: I don't like it anyway.
The interesting aspect is that these morbid fifty shades of sound coexist and support each other without appearing excessively forced.
An ethereal mush accompanied by clarity and quality: compared to which a more mixed Zorn or the early Mr. Bungle seem like linear, limp, and idea-lacking entities.
But before stopping with the nonsense, I'd say let's get back to "Jean Pierre"; who, by the way, is waiting for us.
In the first few seconds it sounds like an Angel Of Death Vers. 2018 with filtered/manipulated voice: a corrosive avalanche of electro-interferences, drum'n'bass or not really sure what, transmutes into a circus-like finale of clear electro-epic-chivalric origin worthy of the wackier Air or the kosmische courier Teutonic from the just passed millennium.
It's a frenetic, rustic, crazy album, totally free from ties, laces, and lapis lazuli: certainly fun; in its own way also exhausting if one isn't adequately armored aurally.
I leave you with the option and/or curiosity to delve into these bewildering acoustic tunnels of Central European production.
But if you don't like it, I'm not to blame: buzz Jean Pierre.
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