How can one talk about something that lasts 10 minutes, contains sounds that put in connection with a superior scheme of things and fades away during the climax of that very connection, without sounding ridiculous? Andrew Chalk and Robin Barnes don’t exactly “play” things; they suggest. Theirs is not music, but a miniature reproduction of that complex phenomenon – the “sunset of the soul” – that placed a hundred knives into our heart during many and one childhood afternoons. We were bent over our books, then suddenly captured by a glimpse of awareness; it could have been a voice, the smell of mum’s flowers on the balcony, the bee that buzzed around them. It could have been an old radio program, or the terrible feeling of being unprepared for the maths test the day after. Or the fear of entering again those depths that had no rational explanation, and when you only thought of speaking about them to some of your friends… forget about it. You can’t describe the sounds of your growth. But Isolde – in ten minutes – have managed to do it. I’m still wondering how they knew. “Infinite repeat” is not just a necessary button this time: it’s a condition of the mind, the loop that keeps us alive – at least for a little longer than today.