To the extent that Machine Gun’s bedlam provokes involuntary gesticulations, spastic contortions, your normal fight or flight impulses, and even an impending sense of unavoidable doom in all sentient beings straight down the old food chain to radishes, it’s the perfect soundtrack for a friendly game of Dodge the Ricochet. And believe me when I tell you the authorities are worried.Īnyway, the point I want to make is my brother brought Brötzmann (along with his pan-European collaborators) down to the basement with us, and I finally figured out what their collective caterwaul is good for.
The peter brotzmann octe free#
You wanna talk free jazz? Machine Gun is the chaotic sound of eight guys in a small studio all playing at odds with one another and is only free to the extent that it managed to escape from an asylum somewhere. Oh yeah, and while they’re each blowing away in total non-syncopation they’re also dodging the sizzling red-hot iron fragments coming from the direction of the two drummers, both of whom also seem oblivious to one another’s presence.
The peter brotzmann octe full#
It makes those free jazz landmarks sound like Duke Ellington in comparison.įrom its very start (no warming up for these guys) Machine Gun comes at you like an explosion in an iron foundry full of crashing piledrivers and shrieking grinders, where three guys on saxophone are producing insane sheets of noise and berserk blurts and skronks, each of them following their own individual “sonic energy” muse like the other two guys aren’t even there. Think yer some kinda hot shit noise aficionado cuz you’ve managed to sit through John Coltrane’s Ascension or Albert Ayler’s Spiritual Unity? I dare you to check out Machine Gun. Suffice it for now to say that Machine Gun is one of the most abrasive, anarchic, and hair-raising free jazz albums to ever set your synapses sizzling like overworked bug zappers. Where, you may be wondering, does German saxophonist Peter Brötzmann’s seminal 1968 European free jazz recording Machine Gun come into this? Patience, friend, patience. It’s kinda like playing kamikaze frisbee, only instead of a frisbee you’re playing with live rounds. It’s more of a case of very quickly covering your balls and contorting yourself into as small a target as possible for that rebounding slug. Not that it’s really possible to dodge a ricocheting bullet they’re pretty darn fast. “Dodge the Ricochet” is fun and easy to play and basically involves standing maybe six feet away from a brick wall and then taking potshots at said wall with your dad’s kid-sized. That water heater was a casualty of war, and its shooting was just one of those things that happens when you’re abruptly levitated out of bed in shock and awe in the form of some ferocious Pharaoh Sanders free jazz skronk playing at maximum volume on your younger brother’s stereo at 10:00 on a hungover Sunday morning, and then proceed to get half drunk and decide it would be a real cool idea to go down to the basement of your parent’s house in Littlestown, Pennsylvania to play a lively game of “Dodge the Ricochet.” We didn’t mean to shoot the water heater.
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