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Objectively speaking, kicking off your album with an elegy for the oft-misunderstood primary antagonist of Blade Runner (1982) is a badass move. Even more so, if said tribute sounds like a footloose pride of ravenous lions escaping the zoo.
Meanwhile back at the ranch, threehundredfortythreesecondsofimprovisation actually clocks in at 344 seconds of active playing and four additional seconds of silence (which is undoubtedly part of the improvisation), and those involved are doubtlessly aware of that fact. This is just the kind of stuff John Sweenie’s latest album is made of: mirages, misdirections and subversions at every turn. Remi-Jean Leblanc’s bass tone might sound like a vast container at one moment and a puddle the next. Richard Irwin’s percussive contributions might come down to the softest whisper, or only have a lingering hallucinatory legacy within the atmosphere. Jean-Michel Pilc might genuinely be two people sitting behind that piano. And saxophonist Sweenie constantly keeps the more inquisitive listener guessing at where what is written ends and where serendipity begins – or if one circle does not devour the other.
Even the album name could be taken as slightly oxymoronic by some, although the bottomless palate of sounds therewithin constantly serves to rebut that notion. Tempo is only relative, and it can be converted into moldable jelly. Dead space, dead silence gives life, time and time again. There is melodicism pigmenting every minute, especially within the atonalities.
Mysticism for Intellectuals