The Flying Luttenbachers

Revenge (Skin Graft)
by Nik Rainey

I have an old Walkman that, when accidentally jarred, makes the most abrasive noise you can imagine, constantly forcing me to screw around with the volume dial until the blasts of static and distortion subside and my battered ears can enjoy the aural fare at hand once more, at least until I hit another bump in my travels and have to repeat the process all over again. Lately, I’ve come to the conclusion that my love for strident screechmusik is largely due to this phenomenon. In fact, a lot of the stuff I’ve been listening to lately is actually enhanced by these intrusions. The Flying Luttenbachers is such a band.

To put it in language that even Chuck Eddy would understand, this is überskronk at its farthest out. Bands from the Contortions through Saccharine Trust had their own individual takes on jazz/punk spazz junk, but the ‘bachers really take it to the bridge, tie it up, pummel it with their pork roast-sized fists, and send it screaming into the abysmal waters below. This is free jazz played at grindcore speed, the likes of which we haven’t seen since the long-deleted Cecil Taylor and Napalm Death: Together and Triturating Small Intestines At Last (Stomachache, 1985). All-instrumental ensembles always run the risk of coming off more wank than Frank (Z.), but this trio has chops, however mangled, and a real sense of control over their scraped-nerve domain. This is entertainment through torture, Arto-meets-Artaud territory, and it swings like a condemned man being hanged from a power line, twitching, screeching, but always within its ascribed space in the charged air several feet over your head as you watch, frightened but riveted. And, from personal experience, lemme tell ya that it’s the perfect accompaniment for when you’re hurtling through a lethargic crowd of human flotsam, desperately trying to catch the last bus home while your hand is working frantically in the pocket of your leather jacket to find your ticket without jolting the ancient tape-player that you can’t afford to replace, wondering dimly if that wet ringing in your head is coming from the tape or just the first blush of permanent hearing loss. Where I come from, that’s quite the accolade.