Mark Wilson’s array of guitars, pedals, urban field recordings, microphones placed on various objects and “a keyboard” causes the imprisonment of the brain in the molasses of an inexorably escalating, horrendously captivating noise. Strings, Locations is one of those records for which the relinquishment of a critical sense is indispensable. It’s mostly transmitting an energizing type of raucous hypnosis, with harmonic halos all around; degenerate yet sublime recurrences that slowly but surely transcend the limit of structure, disseminating cathartic miasmas in the meantime. Normality progressively turning into a sickening un-cheerfulness, the eyes becoming glassy as the ruins of life come and go like signs on a highway’s tarmac. Conure’s violent affirmation of being against all possibilities is also refreshingly unpretentious: get exactly what you hear, without getting lost in the meanders of contorted “explanations” and absolutist theories. A dilapidated entity that still possesses enough beauty to shine under a weak sun, a rock-solid antidote in opposition to the deleterious patina of fakeness often perceived in analogous works.