There’s got to be a way to talk about Tanpenshu #2 without scaring you all off.

Think about it from my side, that’s all I ask. I’ve been trying to get this review written for two days, and I’ve shot more blanks than a whole class full of third graders with cap guns. “Just go get the book,” I was tempted to write. “Just go and expose youselves to this fire-eating, heart-unclogging piece of power, because it burns the b.s. right out of the soul, and anything that does that in this world is something to cherish and defend.”

That’s why I had such great things to say about Apollo’s Song and MW and Abandon the Old in Tokyo, which all hurt. Hurt like being slapped by someone you loved, right after you’d blurted out something unbearably careless and hurtful to their face. So — and you can see the dilemma by now — Q: Why then would anyone want to subject themselves to it?

A: Because of what you are when you come out the other side.

So goes the theory, anyway. In practice, most people are not interested in giving themselves an aesthetic scourging that they’re not being tested on later. This is why Merzbow does not routinely outsell Shakira, and the first volume of Tanpenshu didn’t hit the New York Times bestseller list (which is a crying shame).