Enwrapped by the consequences of an ingenious restlessness, violist Charlotte Hug (adding voiced twirps on occasion) and cellist Fred Lonberg-Holm convey a somewhat dumbfounding esprit de corps, supported by interlaced jargons and fast development of embryonic cells that could even appear non-meaningful if observed alone. But mixed as they are in multitudes of galvanizing refractions and penetrating questions – often lacking a real answer – they generate the kind of irrepressible force that sets a listener in the enviable condition of accepting an irruptive phenomenon without the need of analytic thinking. The unreasonable quantity of micro-movements and indescribable noises they make, the anorexic poetry deriving from the couple’s germination of infinitesimal patterns and frenzied scraping, the anxious inclination to explaining loads of concepts at once while remaining able to rustle and breath calmly when the moment comes; all of the above defines a record that lacerates many conventions of today’s duo interplay. Critical stimulation with a tiny degree of lyricism, an unquiet intimacy broken by the inconstancy of events that might not change the universe, but sure enough alter a receptive person’s sense of proportion for a given time. Hovering seagulls – not in search of fish, just watching the ugliness of humans sprawled on the sand. Excellent music, lots of listens required.