Wow, I was wroooong about that, wasn’t I? You see, about five years ago when my musical tastes started to really fall into the depths of underground extremity, I figured I’d soon be awash in submissions just like John Dikeman’s The Double Trio and reviewing Talibam! between breaths while I straddled a few Owl Xounds tapes and a No-Neck-a-thon or two. JESUS I was not only incorrect but very possibly challenged in some way because that simply has not happened. Hell, the last time I reviewed a skronkfest was probably back when Weasel Walter’s label was still ug-XPLODE-ing all over those nuts. Where are the post-jazz improvisers, and what is their collective email address, I ask you? Now that I’m done asking readers for things they can’t technically submit to me (I come and go, in the shadows, as I please; call me TMT’s Gandalf) unless they’re crafty, allow me to finally begin to speak about The Double Trio and its amazing cycles and mating habits. While Dikeman is the frontman for this operation, his supporting cast is easily enough to get TMT followers in titters and tatters (Jeb Bishop, Jason Roebke, Joshua Abrams, friend-of-Cerbs Frank Rosaly, and Mike Reed ring a bell? I thought they might.) on its own. And I know I don’t even have to say it, much less spray it like these fuckers do, but this is a quintet you don’t wanna fuck with. There’s so much energy afoot I get a little shock every so often if I close my eyes and listen to this tape for 10 seconds and touch something. I don’t know what each guy does unfortunately (I’m assuming Rosaly is on percussion?), so I won’t be able to relate individual exploits other than to say the bass and trombone, to me, lead the charge and provide the most provocative punch. This is some truly sick boning, too; Fishbone’s Dirty Walt would be proud, as would Bill Watrous. What I dig the most is the fact that these folks jam for about 60 minutes or so on each side and never seem to tire of each other, and the connection is not only cosmic but contagious. My record room just became a fuckin’ jazz den, man. This is what the tape format was resuscitated for; our jazzheads need room to stretch/spool out.
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