Bailey Sabu Brotzmann.
Live in Okayama. Recorded 16th November 1987.
Another awesome contribution, this time from Jazzme.
We are transported to the other end, the far end, of the jazz-scale.
This review snagged from One Final Note;
Released in an extremely restricted pressing on Kouichi Oishima's Improvised Company imprint (a label designed incidentally with the primary purpose of issuing unreleased Peter Brötzmann recordings—how's that for an admirable mission?) this disc is a rare collectible from square one. The reality that the music contained on its silvery surface is of such high quality almost seems like a bonus. Two pieces preface the highly anticipated main event meeting between the three: a full-tilt duo explosion between Sabu and Brötzmann and a maddening solo conflagration by Bailey.The first piece is in much the same vein as it's predecessor captured on Improvised Company's first release, a paint-peeling, rafter-splintering blowout that finds Herr Brötzmann exploding out of the starting gate with Sabu's incendiary traps licking at his boot heels. A percussive flood envelops the saxophonist carrying him along on a crashing rhythmic wall of fire, his own horn scorching a charred path out front. This is ecstatic free jazz at its most relentlessly volatile, the monochromatic nature of the recording contributing to the coarsely militant discord. Nine minutes into the maelstrom, the German drops out and Sabu bangs out a bombastic rush of clatter tinged by unexpected Blakeyesque press rolls. Brötzmann's keening tarogato surfaces, wailing an Eastern line over Sabu's volatile cadences before the duo locks briefly into an oddly syncopated groove. Eventually the energy reverts back to ecstatic release as Brötzmann lets fly with a flood of overblown yawps.Throughout his solo piece Bailey strangely recalls John Fahey with weirdly strummed, almost chordal progressions speckling his improvisations. High on his frets sometimes creating almost harpsichord-like sonorities from his sparsely amplified strings. He also makes judicious use of his patented volume pedal effects, stretching tones and chopping them short in equal measure with an alien logic even the most erudite of improvisers would be hard pressed to fathom. Toward the middle of the piece he seems to alter his proximity to the recording equipment and his sound flattens, but these lapses are usually only momentary.Echinous slabs of dissonance from Bailey lacerate the boiling phalanx of Sabu's cymbal vortex. Brötzmann unsheathes his horn and commences hacking with constricted high register saxophone howls. The three collide in a raging liquid cacophony and are dragged kicking and screaming by gravity's rainbow down a bottomless funnel of dissonant sound. Later the velocity subsides and the dynamics of the trio open up as Brötzmann moves once again to tartly rendered tarogato. Considering the high-volume sound expenditures and the primitive nature of the recording configuration the three voices retain a remarkable degree of independence and clarity.
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