The Ex
At Bimhuis (1991-2015)

THE REVIEW

Tulips, drugs, Bimhuis.

Bimhuis, this jazz festival held in Amsterdam for about 25 years, of which the Ex are the cornerstone, and of which the Ex wanted to present us, in an exciting double live album, some of their best performances. In particular, those from 1991, 1993, 2002, 2010, 2012, 2015, accompanied by a host of guests, among whom a strong Ethiopian presence stands out, also engaged on the "visual" side (dancers, circus directors) and we can even glimpse one of our fellow countrymen, Roy Paci, on the trumpet.

But it's not so much the presence of Mr. Toda joia, toda beleza that ennobles this masterpiece. The work proposed by these guests (whose list occupies two columns of an entire booklet page with font size 3, just to give you an idea) is exceptional, although I knew very few of them (many are also Dutch, French, British, and American).

It might be those hours of concert where you can savor all the facets of the great Dutch artists' career, especially the "syncretic" one of the second phase, where, set aside the anarcho-punk spirits, they jumped into "that music with guests very close to the avant-garde, mixing genres like few," to use the literal words with which I was introduced to this group.

The Ex's music, indeed, is something special. You can hear the funambulist jazz-rock of the Soft Machine, the chaotic punk anarchy of the Crass, the compositional genius of Frank Zappa, the world music experiences of Peter Gabriel; just to throw down some names known to everyone, although – naturally – it’s something else compared to the sum of the parts, especially since I set the parts myself here.

It might have been that moment when I bought it, with the record seller pulling this album from that somewhat special section of his store with the "experimental" sign, but before putting it into my eager hands, he wants me to listen to it, replacing it with the little music he used to play in his small shop, to make me understand how beautiful that piece was, how valuable that percussionist was, how good that guitarist was, how he would like to see them live for the fourth time. Sticazzi. And then he points out the outfit, so proletarian, remembering almost with misty eyes the good old days.

Well then, the review is crap, but buy it. It's worth it.