Squarcicatrici
Zen Crust

From whisper to explosion.

An agogic representation of sound. No pattern. Only movement in perpetual variation within the composition.

Zen as resilience in anarchic expressive liberation.

Crust as feral rage, saturation and scraping of noise.

In each other, there is the DNA of the other. A sort of Yin and Yang where opposing energies are sealed and completed. Like the oxymoron that holds them tightly in the title of the work.

We are made of cracks and memories. Of tears and scars, indeed.

It is what remains when action becomes flesh. It leaves traces.

Futile the attempt at repair. The fibers give way. Granules of tissue struggle. Putrid blood groans.

Everything sways, doesn’t craft, doesn’t heal.

It only reshapes.

And leaves a mark.

In this explosive dithyramb, there is no escape, no respite.

Everything tends to assault the ear. A slap or a tenderness.

It is an upside-down world where a hand seems like a claw and a caress a whip that skins you.

The compositions are exuberant, often angular but always refined.

Dissonances and overflowing electro-acoustic dynamics rule..

There are also polyrhythms, divertissements, and Afro-American heartbeats.

It's a crossroads of intuitions that loots avant-punk with noise contamination and electronic studies.

An hour of sparkling noise experiments that feed on deconstructed harmonics and percussive jolts.

Primordial songwriting, jazz watercolors, remixed and regurgitated cacophonies.

Wind instruments in free contortion on hiccuping cello counterpoints.

But also fusion rides with sax and guitars adrift in agonizing fits of bizarre timings.

Schizophrenic phrasings and meditative absences that merge into a single spectrum that raises tension and disorients.

A cavalcade of emotions and virulent sound labyrinths that infect mercilessly.

After about an hour, for those few who make it, one finally reaches the terminus.

But perhaps, if the wound is given the right time, removing the crust can become pleasant.