Seldom does one come across a septet on
the underground weird/free music scene, likely due to the casual
nature of the scene itself as well as the logistical hurdle of
getting a big troupe together to record. Nevertheless, Odd Clouds'
Chris Pottinger (Cotton Museum, Slither) and Jamie Easter (Drona
Parva) have assembled seven expert improvisers for this dense strip
of jam-session goodness. I'll admit I haven't heard anything else
from this meteorological outfit, who've issued most of their past
material through Fag Tapes (that label's proprietor, Heath Moerland,
also appears on this LP), though a high-octane production such as
this seems as good a starting point as any. As if heeding the call
of my inexperience, this free-jazz romp gets its point
across rapidly. For the bulk of Deceiving Illusion, the listener
is confronted with improvised sax, trumpet, and electric guitar
strewn over a psychedelic backbone of rhythm and guitar. The wild, loosey-goosey outcome is sort of like
Acid Mothers Temple meets the
Art Ensemble of Chicago.
As a foreword to side A, Odd Clouds
kick off with the drudging sound of a record being manually dragged
across its needle; this brief, anomalous passage then empties into a
macabre junk dirge which is more at home with the album's principal
thesis. A brief second track lays down a plodding beat and guitar
groove over which regular, irked sax screeches breathe and ferment,
only to die off in favor of the arrhythmic interlude of track three
-- here we get psychedelic guitar blips, reverberating woodwind
swirls, and restless percussive squalls. Though it lacks the
psychedelic rhythm of this LP's main jams, it is one of its better
improvisations; the musicians skillfully manoeuver to
generate a piece
that's cacophonous but not unlistenable, joyously unbound but
hinting at a dark underside -- it's sort of like the score to some
cabalistic dream sequence, or, perhaps, a nihilistic arthouse war
scene. Ultimately, however, it's a build-up to the side's fourth and
final outlet, which blows along in a determined movement of
propulsive, tribal rhythm beneath playful but tetchy trumpeting and
the twinkly plinking of a Makoto-esque electric guitar.
The B-side begins with a divine
rustle-bustle like animals slowly wandering under the morning sun.
Eerie mechanoid vocals are then introduced to somewhat jarring
effect, but this is merely a preamble to the side's main attraction, an extended, expansive jam session built around a brilliant bed
of volatile and hectic percussion. Now, this is hardly
an epiphany.Innumerable bands have performed innumerable psychedelic free-jazz
improvisations before this, and among these countless freak-outs one
can be sure that Odd Clouds have been at some point bettered on
pretty much any abstract noun you can name (wondrousness, loudness, psychedelicness, impressiveness...) Instead, this lengthy passage is
merely part of a greater ritual -- the band's entry into the pantheon
of cathartic improv jams. It is, after all, a particularly admirable
blast. The guitars and woodwinds interact playfully with one
another; they call-and-respond, they tussle around in the mud
together -- clearly musicianship is not a question here. The
performers combine notions of melody and convention with the
dissonance and abstraction of the saxophone and electric guitar
twang. As it wisps through alternating climaxes and pensive moments,
the band maintains a constantly psychedelic vibe, especially when
the bass is grooving. As the track draws to a reserved close, one
feels some perspiration and -- perhaps, among the more hardcore of
us -- the rumblings of an impending erection. A job well done, to be
sure.
