A fanfare of hellish sax noise punches through the listener's head much like the titular firearm, and generations of sound flash before your ears over the subsequent quarter of an hour, reflecting the mechanised terror of automated warfare, and wave after wave of subsequent fallen victims. Just look right back to Brötzmann's first major work, the title track from his 1968 masterpiece, Machine Gun. Ephemeralities like bars and notes no longer carry any meaning. The various solo, duet and group recordings under Brötzmann's leadership (and there are so very many) have always communicated most meaningfully in the longest possible form - perhaps the free-jazz movement's most striking departure from traditional jazz. The most defining characteristic of Brötzmann's playing - other than his infamously harsh tone - has always been the way in which the pieces come to life around him. Its spontaneity is what can initially draw a listener in, with the default praise for group improvisation being a congratulation of their 'telepathy' or 'chemistry'. This music is the purest kind, choosing to usurp notions such as pitch, rhythm or melody in the search for its sounds. Even alongside the manic spectacle of Bennink, it was seeing Brötzmann in person that forever indoctrinated me to his cause quite literally feeling the vibrations from his sax, and inhaling the smoke from his pipe.
Within the murky depths of a smoke-filled Butlins - yes, this was when you could still smoke indoors - their unplugged sax and drums abrasion espoused a sort of acoustic musical truth too easily overlooked by the reverb and amplifier worship permeating all neighbouring stages. I was a mere 17 at the time and in a weekend filled with epiphanies, Peter Brötzmann and Han Bennink's duel was by far writ starkest upon my fragile teenage mind. The first and last time I saw Peter Brötzmann was at the Thurston Moore-curated Nightmare Before Christmas by ATP back in 2006.
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