In improvisation there is no right or wrong; whatever happens must be accepted and, if possible, enjoyed. The pairing of Homler’s voice, toys and objects with Liebig’s contrabass guitar and treatments yields a multitude of results: distressing claustrophobic cages of low frequency diffidence and deformed utterances of ancient spirits contrast the “lighter” moments, where Anna intones difficult-to-decipher idioms in a totally unconventional series of song fragments reminiscent of Julie Tippetts and Shelley Hirsch’s work, with the concomitance of Steuart’s outbursts of nervous energy burning through reductive surrogates of undisclosed sonic earthquakes. The music is often comparable to what’s commonly – and superficially – defined as “avantgarde composition”, showing few openings, tending to remain in its own cold microcosm only to reveal various forms of bitter truth where gloomy atmospheres and borderline poetry ask for the permission to engulf us in their indeterminacy. Call it high-level introversion.


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