Of the many settings — from solo to multiple orchestras — in which Anthony Braxton's music can be found, the duet is in many ways the most telling. Braxton's composing tends toward the linear — long phrases repeating back on themselves, varying and fragmenting — and nothing could bring that out more than a dialogue. His recordings with fellow reed player Kyle Brenders or vocalist Anne Rhodes, for example, are almost aggressively naked, monophonic lines of thought unfettered by chordal accompaniment.

The overlapping duality is intensified by Braxton's interest in pairing compositions, playing one alongside or within another, as with the above-mentioned duets and with Duets (Pittsburgh) 2008, another pairing of reeds. Saxophonist Ben Opie put his back into making it happen, organizing a weekend of concerts that included a septet show, Braxton leading a concert by the CAPA High School band and him playing with birds at a local aviary.

During that time Opie also got Braxton into a studio to record the two hours that became Duets (Pittsburgh) 2008. It's a remarkable ride, and Opie clearly knew what he'd gotten himself into. The pair is solid and confident throughout, playing together, nearly together, falling apart and sometimes wholly separately. In addition to the saxophones (both have altos on hand, Braxton also armed with soprano and sopranino, Opie with a tenor), they each play contrabass clarinet, a wonderfully wobbly and reedy voice that adds a different depth to the conversation. There's a tension in impossibility which Braxton often seeks, and which makes this record such a success — two horns, for example, falling into unison without a rhythm section 20 minutes into an hour-long piece. In Braxton's constructions, the near misses are as electrifying as the hits. It's that assuredness, three quarters of the way into the second half, that allows them to nearly disappear for a few moments, barely brushed reeds whistling with the intention of the score. Or maybe somehow the aviary snuck in.