Michael Vorfeld rejuvenates the suffering auricular membranes of those who are scared of listening to a solitary artist improvising for a whole record. A justified terror, given the proven insignificance of innumerable insipid “efforts” that certain self-professed geniuses throw out with debilitating effects for the patience of poor listeners desirous of substance. The unconventional stringed instruments handled by the German besides his percussive arsenal produce a music whose axis connects David Jackman, Harry Bertoia and an artisan of metal scrupulously filing and scraping pieces in a tiny workshop. Every track shows a facet – or more – of what Vorfeld is able of conjuring up with just a few expert touches. Raucous high frequencies extend their duration to the exact moment in which the ears want to hear something different; roaring echoes sounding like inside laments from some huge hangar host successive accumulations of small knocks, curly harmonics, pricky zings and swollen sparkles. A feel of elegant nihilism pervades the entire set, an impregnable barrier against the foolishness of pretended inspiration rising via ill-tempered rumbling and subtle acoustic vigilance. When hush falls at the end of each episode we find ourself curious to scrutinize the subsequent one, until starting a new playback becomes an obligation.

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