More scrapple from the (northern) Apple, specifically out of the cold confines of Buffalo, courtesy of enigmatic British saxophonist Butcher and drummer Hemingway. Though Hemingway is credited with drums and percussion, odd fillips from his trusty sampler occasionally weave their way into the mix (mostly in the form of low-flying interruptive noises); still, what sounds are hastily erected by the duo are culled from the dynamics of their respective instruments. This is a music (and a recording) that needs little in the way of embellishment or ornamentation; raw, rough around the edges, strident and squeaky, Butcher and Hemingway engender sounds whose very restlessness exposes both artists as provocateurs obsessed with notes right down to the molecular level.

Yes, Buffalo Pearl is often a pointillist exercise, one in which had there been "amplification" present would have more than likely sent the audience shrieking outside in search of ear muffs. As is, the sometimes "muted" scenarios hold everything steady, since whatever power emanates from either Butcher's forced blusters of air or Hemingway's pitted drum set is always present, even when the pieces are constructed out of what seems to be on-the-spot micro-edits or half-glimpsed specters. All of the album's schizophrenic dynamics can be easily found in the opener, "Light Queen", where Hemingway sets up a rhythmic foundation, at once seemingly complex yet naggingly minimalistic (his drum taps and scattershot percussive accents hover about like a foggy swarm of gnats) over which Butcher spits out a virtual economy of bisecting notes. Much of the saxophonist's moxie goes a long way; therein lies both his charm and Achilles heel, operating within a safe AMM-esque cocoon of cool where his rampant atonalities find themselves at odds with Hemingway's own dyspeptic volleys.

Of course, anyone familiar with these gents' pedigrees more or less know what to expect before even removing the shrink-wrap � you approach the resultant chaos understanding that these two aren't in it for anyone expecting a parade of easy listening. But a lot of Butcher's shrill goes a long way, as does Hemingway's aberrant tics; where's the gel, the jelly, holding it all together? Certainly little of anything simpatico ever arises despite the duo's earnest attempts to ignite a spark. Nietzsche remarked, "Out of chaos comes order" � at this particular Buffalo outing, the musician's history notwithstanding, order becomes a four-letter word.