Like ivy weaving through a forgotten city, "Plexus Plexus" sprawls with effortless purpose - a glowing tangle of sound where jazz, krautrock, and spiritual freeplay braid themselves into one living organism. Munich’s genre-bending alchemists Web Web, now six albums deep into their journey, offer here not a careful studio construction but a spontaneous blooming: messy, dazzling, fragrant with the sweat of real-time creation.

Gone are the polished collaborations with Max Herre that defined their previous phase; "Plexus Plexus" is about going barefoot into the unknown. And in true Web Web style, the unknown sounds suspiciously like the '70s, when synths were mystical machines and the boundary between jazz club and spaceship was paper-thin.

The decision to call up JJ Whitefield (of Poets of Rhythm, Karl Hector & The Malcouns, and countless other groove laboratories) just a day before recording feels almost absurdly casual - like deciding to add a dragon to your chess game because, well, why not? Whitefield’s guitar doesn't dominate but instead "haunts" the session: funky flickers here ("The Madness Of Ajax"), deep psychedelic coils there ("Sacred Tree"), all wrapped around the band's elastic, breathing core.

Recording 14 tracks in two marathon days, swapping instruments like kids trading baseball cards, the quartet (Roberto Di Gioia, Tony Lakatos, Christian von Kaphengst, Peter Gall) conjures a mood that’s somehow both urgent and serene. It’s a sound that remembers Sun Ra's motto - “space is the place” - but also suggests that the back room of a Munich jazz bar at 3 a.m. is pretty cosmic too.

Highlights abound: "Apotheosis" opens with regal tension, "Bird’s Lament" (yes, the Moondog classic!) is reimagined with reverent looseness, and "Garden of Hesperides" could soundtrack a dream in which you float through an endless sunrise. Throughout, Di Gioia’s Rhodes glows like embers under every groove, and Lakatos' saxophone shifts between breathy whispers and sudden, golden flares.

There’s something beautifully ironic here: an album born of chaotic improvisation that feels tighter and more emotionally coherent than most meticulously produced projects. It’s as if, by letting go completely, Web Web caught hold of something essential - something pure, slippery, and almost mythological, much like the ancient figures ("Nyx", "Cheiron", "Sun-Hero") that populate the tracklist.

Plexus Plexus isn’t just another jazz album. It feels more like a ritual accidentally caught on tape — a snapshot of musicians abandoning the map, only to find a secret garden where rhythms grow wild and melodies slither like curious snakes.

It reminds you that true music doesn't always arrive with a polished face; sometimes it bursts out of the undergrowth, tangled, radiant, and breathing.

And if you stand still long enough, Plexus Plexus doesn’t just play for you - it reconfigures you, rewiring your inner circuitry with every flicker of Rhodes, every cosmic sigh of the saxophone, every thrum of Whitefield’s otherworldly guitar.

You don't listen to this record. You tumble into it, and when you crawl back out, everything hums just a little differently.