Vanessa Rossetto has reached the destination. The wholehearted approval of her work in the field of electroacoustic soundscaping by the elite of official criticism is seaming a dress of deserved reputation for the Austin-based artist. Mineral Orange is a fine sample of what this woman is able to do by mixing both known and unclear sources with taste and imagination.

“Cebra” is defined by a brumous hoarseness, the sum of a dozen crepuscules observed in the dangerous neighborhoods of a city. Hundreds of urban reverberations – including talking people, passing cars, and dogs – are interspersed with various strata of electrostatic griminess and rarefied string pitches, the umpteenth replay of a tape ruined by months of exposure to dust. A couple of transitory pseudo-electronic clusters add a touch of magic to the composition.

“Moire Pattern Caused By Dots” begins suddenly with an alarm and some creaking movement, before a clandestine market of biotic processes is opened. After a while, a shift occurs and we’re thrown in the middle of a forest ruled by birds, but the enchantment lasts a mere instant ahead of airplanes, ripped paper and unspecified thumps and bumps. The ebb and flow generated by the alternance between the ornithological chorale and the material aspects of ordinariness is the piece’s most prominent feature.

“Swim Bladder” opens the LP’s second side with a quietly growing subterranean drone upon which manual activities unfold, just prior to a fantastic point of leverage, like a single toll on a huge bell mixed with reed tones. This short momentous event precedes a section in which the harmonious components of distance and the noxious fumes of a metropolis fuse into a sensational gathering of obsessions and daydreams.

“Make Use Of The Ground” sees a person walking alone accompanied by ghosts of abandoned buildings, spectral resonances, remote chirping, snippets of conversation and additional ethereal hues. It’s the lone occasion in which one could hint to a vague harmonic grounding – a pair of more definite “notes” inform the scene – yet the lingering sensation is that of a slight trepidation. Not exactly explainable, though; the sort of inside unrest that grips your stomach when sleep doesn’t manage to silence the ominous foreshadows of a churning soul. Waking up with the meager counterpoint born from a superimposition of violas may very well be the appropriate way to begin another daily cycle and forget the anxiety for what was dreamt, at least momentarily.

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