Wordlessly authoritative music, exemplary in firmly refusing cushiness, thoroughly logical in its essential configuration. Volden maneuvers a 12-string guitar with objects, Nakamura acts behind a legendary no-input mixing board. Over the course of the first chapter “Scattering” they leave the sonic events come about similarly to someone who stands immobile in a wood throughout a windy day, letting dead leaves and small pieces of branches hit an unflustered composure, blinking every once in a while, listening intensely. The combination of pressure and stasis is perfect; the different ranges of frequencies do not determine bloodsheds but there’s no alliance involved, either. A series of subsonic moans around the thirteen minute evokes a lost soul’s distress. Everything is connected according to what appears as an unyielding rationale; the consecutiveness of deep hums, stridently acute pitches, resounding motions on the guitar body, scathing feedback noxiousness and the ever-present underworld of scrapes is acidly sinuous and extremely edgy. In “Perception”, Nakamura, increasing the number of jarring emissions from his machinery, contrasts Volden’s tendency to let out a few “regular” plucked and picked notes from the soundhole, the latter incidences augmenting an unambiguous transparency. Still, the real core of the matter is symbolized by the uneven buzzing-cum-sinister rumble starting halfway through the track, almost immediately followed by a constant ringing accompanied by cynical fizzy discharges. The systematic absence of culmination points in favour of a persistent tension – perceptible even during the episodes in which the sources are particularly rarefied – is a major plus. Discriminative excrescences from untraceable organisms, difficult to decipher completely, mesmerizing for that very reason. Great record.