The credits inside this recording note that all "instant compositions" are by Salvodelli and Sharp, so it's safe to assume we're firmly in improv territory here. Whew...anyone coming to the conclusion that the works bubbling across Protoplasmic were actually composed might upon listening potentially succumb to myocardial infarction. Oh, this is heady stuff, painfully unique, unashamedly confrontational the way good art should be, and every bit one of the more challenging experiences your ear will absorb in this or any other recent year.

Sharp's pedigree, combined with his chameleonic ability to adapt, survive and evolve in any given recording situation, has held him in good stead for over three decades at this point; it's a given that when you see his name attached to a project, any project, sonic deconstruction will commence with uniformly swift and deadly precision. Cut-up vocalist and electronicist Salvodelli is a new name in these parts, but initial dipping into Protoplasmic finds him an adept vocal gymnast and aesthetic graduate of the Phil Minton/David Moss school of larynxial dexterity. Together with Sharp's spastic molestation of his own trusty frets and arc-welder's electronics, both he and Salvodelli wreak aural havoc across uncharted plains and valleys.

A track such as "Black Floyd" doesn't so much go from a whisper to a scream as from jet-engine breakdown to cosmic mulch, Sharp's pitch-bent electronics eventually giving way to Salvodelli's jackal cries, which get trampled in the resulting mix. This track alone mandates that anyone getting close to the frenzy splayed out before them be thick of skin and sensibility to match — Salvodelli and Sharp's works are hardly for the timid, some of their moves beggaring modal belief, all devastating aharmolodics and spiky differentials of viral noise. "Nostalgia" finds whirring electronics and Sharp's metal string effects buzzing about Salvodelli's throaty chirrups like lunatic gadflies, dancing in the proverbial dark yet alive with mad glee. The sounds that often skittle about certainly do reek of a pliable plasmaticism, as if the duo were auguring new base metals for future construction and eventual immolation.

The final lengthy work "Dig It" bears this out, Salvodelli and Sharp ripping out the innards of the NYC downtown legacy in an alarming holocaust of backwards guitar licks, looped whoops, cries, hollers and misstarts, and enough skronking sax, processed and otherwise, to drive more bats out of belfries than two people should be allowed to do. These guys are simultaneously careering and careening, knocking down the barriers of taste and ideas in a battering gold rush of invention, and that's saying something.