From the first moments of "How The Thing Sings", the excitement that has been at a steady rumble since Bill's return to music has it's on-going existence validated once again. "No True Vine" is only one minute long, and the percussive aspect of his rather harsh style of fret dancing, is churning beneath the true sound of his guitar, like he's got someone scattering a free jazz underbelly to fill a space that he has already occupied himself. It's an adequate opener, in the sense that you pay attention and know that in the worst case scenario, you are being graced by another collection of Bill's work.
...though by the time you are a couple of minutes into the second song, "The Visible Bosom", it is apparent that he has allowed his momentum to be even more abstract than the playing on his output from the past few years would have one already assume it to be on any subsequent relase.
Sure, the same general approach is here - Orcutt's extremely stylistic manner of maneuvering (and tuning) which was once an overblown and violent component of Harry Pussy's sound clear back in the 90's, though seemingly accelerated and channeled through acoustic guitar instead. This alone has been such a rewarding act, as while many who obsess on Harry Pussy's work under the false assumption that it was just a wall of punk / noise, when returning to many of those old records, sure - the drumming was an animal-like onslaught that was an explosion if anything, but the guitar playing was often incredibly intricate in this strange technical and jazz-like sort of way. Adris's vocals were insane, sure, but it was the guitar work that really had sealed the deal with me.
But that is then, and "How The Thing Sings" is now, organic and raw: it's wide open,... no counting off, no other members to keep in synch with, no "songs" in the sense of having to start and stop and certainly no expectation of keeping a steady pace,... all of these restrictions and limitations are tossed out the windows, and Bill allows himself to do this thing, completely uninhibited.
And so the scattered clusters of what are often interpreted as mangled break-neck blues can sputter out in whatever forms they may, intricate and usually remarkably beautiful patterns that are so complex yet blunt. Stop them if he wants, moan along in conjunction with their expected courses of travel, stop, rip the most detuned of all strings away from the body - letting it smack back against it as many times in a row as feels necessary, calm and peaceful yet tense for a moment (and more often than not on the Side B), agitated and jagged the next, is it that he is so fulfilled by the act of crafting these blindly built pieces that he is almost laughing?
That catharsis is familiar, and can even be experienced by the listener - if they are willing. In fact, the enjoyment I receive from listening through this feels almost voyeuristic, as though this is a window into a part of Bill, and that he can not help but to let his instrument expose and leach and spastically map out his neurological activity in real time.
And yet for being such a wild and adventurous record, in a way, Orcutt's new LP is also perhaps his most accessible, the sort of thing that has the rare ability to allow strangers from all sorts of back grounds to connect with it, though one can only assume by chance: maintaining it's inert organic qualities and function as an outlet, above any concerns or expectations of approval. Though of course, how could something so incredible not be loved by many?
