The presence of freely-extemporising guitarist Manuel Mota within this all-Portuguese set-up pushes the creations of its bandleader into more radicalised territory. Amado's sensuous sax smokes are set to channel their smouldering Rollins-esque blues before Mota jumps in, dismantling tradition even as he draws upon it, alternating between spiky jabs and string bends, with nods to both Derek Bailey and Tetuzi Akiyama. At their best circling the relics of reductionist abstracts, emphasising the tone and timbre of each contribution, the quartet occasionally fluster in the spume of their own disarray, as on the blustery mid-section of the suitably-named opener ‘Abandon Yourself’. Rather than invigorating, it's the signal for a cerebral switch-off. Fortunately, Mota's inventive preening and Ferrandini's buckled cymbal alchemy – check the capacious spectres swirling round ‘Surrender’ – do enough to keep the game alive. In future, Amado and company might look to further the art of almost, the sweet breath of nearly there, rather than press on for the collective full-tilt.