Album Review: The Death Of The Rare Bird Ymir Bonobo Beach by Hans Reichel
If you're into jazz that doesn’t play by the rules, Hans Reichel’s The Death Of The Rare Bird Ymir Bonobo Beach is one of those albums that feels like it crawled out of some alternate universe where free improvisation reigns supreme. Released in 1993 on Germany’s FMP label, this record isn’t just music—it’s an experience. And let me tell ya, it’s not for everyone. But if you’re cool with letting go of structure and diving headfirst into something raw and unpredictable, you might just fall in love.
Reichel does it all here—he wrote the tunes, played guitar (and I mean played), took the photos, and even helped shape the vibe. Fred Frith adds thoughtful liner notes, which kinda feel like someone guiding you through a maze without giving away too much. Jost Gebers produced the thing, keeping the sound tight but still loose enough to breathe. It's like they wanted to make sure you could hear every scrape, pluck, and whisper of Reichel’s genius.
Now, onto the tracks. There are 12 songs on the album, but two really stuck with me. First up, “Bonobo Beach [I].” This tune starts off deceptively chill, almost like you’re lounging under a palm tree somewhere—but then BAM! The guitar work gets wild. It’s like Reichel decided halfway through, “Nah, screw calm vibes,” and went full-on avant-garde shredder mode. You can practically picture him hunched over his custom-built daxophone (yeah, he made guitars weird too), coaxing sounds no human should be able to pull from wood and strings. Honestly, it’s chaotic, but in the best way possible.
Then there’s “The Death Of The Rare Bird Ymir.” How could I forget that title? The track itself feels like mourning mixed with celebration. It’s haunting yet playful, as if Reichel’s trying to say goodbye to something precious while cracking jokes at the same time. His guitar squeaks and groans like it has its own personality, and you can’t help but wonder what kind of bird Ymir was—and why we’re celebrating its death? Morbid, maybe, but also strangely beautiful.
What makes this album stand out isn’t just the technical skill or the experimental nature—it’s how personal it feels. Every note seems like it came straight outta Reichel’s brain without second-guessing. Sure, it’s messy at times, but isn’t life kinda messy too?
Here’s the kicker though: after listening to this album, I found myself wondering if Hans ever regretted naming anything "Could Be Nice Too" because dude, everything about this project screams confidence. Maybe that’s the real takeaway—don’t overthink it, just create. Even if it means killing off imaginary rare birds along the way.
