It can also seem like perfect examples of what Robert Wyatt termed "trying to find beauty where others see ugliness" (paraphrasing here, since I can't at the tie of writing find the original quote). Peter Brötzmann's work tends to keep you on your toes and alert. Only to be shaken up by yet another outburst. Out of the smoke pops Fred Van Hove's slighty swinging piano, subtly stumbling bass patterns by Peter Kowald and Buschi Niebergall, and an off-kilter, drunken saxophone forging its way in between. That initial outpouring soon gives way to much mellower sounds, though. Even now, having listened to Machine Gun countless times since I first encountered it over 20 years ago, I'm never quite prepared for that opening salvo. The sound barrage is almost overwheling, shaking the listener out of their comfort zone. The sudden screams and splutters from three saxophones is shocking and disturbing, the following rat-at-at-at of the two drums rattling and unsetteling.
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