Claggy, evocative (evocative of WHAT?, as my GCSE English teacher's red pen would ask) free improvisations from Alastair Galbraith and Bruce Russell, originally released on tape through Russell’s Corpus Hermeticum label in ’94. Amid the (welcome!) deluge of NZ underground revives coming thick and fast in 2019, this one feels particularly foundational, an ur-text of sorts. Against a backdrop of quietly roaring tape-hiss that could equally be the ocean or the blood pumping through your head, a molecular drama of minimal synth drones, hypnotic free-folk guitar/banjo(?) and other less obviously identifiable nameless acoustic phenomena plays out. This is improvisation precisely as I like it: spiky, feral, but not averse to repetition and space.
In the accompanying notes, Jon Dale writes: “I’ve always been drawn to this cassette for its utterly unique, acroamatic sensibility - it seems less interested in third-eye-rupturing … and more about a late night session, bleeding into early morning, under the influence of heady wisdom and headier substances… What we had here was very much the real deal, collective and solo eviscerations from the heart of sound itself.”
According to Russell, “Jon got the time of day wrong, but not much else…Here Adam Qadmon, the ur-Golem, comes again. Walking from the graveyard of the past, blinking in the autumn sun, and shaking twenty-five years of clay from his coat.”