From the Diary of Dog Drexel
Musique concrète, as an archaic variety of New Music, caught noises with a butterfly net and pierced them. In a poetical travesty of this procedure, composer Scott Fields and his ensemble switch themselves on and off like a tape, let noise, silence, explosion, implosion, color-thunderstorm and pale nothing succeed one another hard and fast — or weave concrete things into one another, images which come up, overlap, discolor, change. Everything is hand-made and mouth-blown, everyone is a juggler, amply gifted to wake up illusions and re-extinguish them. Shadow-voice behind the clarinet becomes hectic breath, becomes railroad, uncanny in approaching, as in effacing its own decipherment. It is a dream wherein the unbiased eye sees symbols, signals, signs all in off-shades, restlessly moved, pulled by invisible strings. Pictographs arise like suns: glassy swimming desert-flowers of vibraphone and crotales, cheeky siren-glissandi with which the oboe — unappreciated princess of jazz-instruments — plays the trumpet…
A winter-cold epilogue though — as if logic was not allowed to remain without a punch line — throws a net over the sounds after all: electronic mirage constructs the decay of color and outline. Fogs are lifting, threatening, clearing up — and Scott Fields’ thrashing guitar sound emerges; echo of rage, naked king in the heath. — seven boxes (highest rating) Neue Musikzeitung