Canadian turntablist and improviser Hansen created an album that’s as impenetrable as the contorted psychology of a person who hears voices, and that after several consecutive listenings leaves no describable impression, inviting me to try again in the vain effort of conforming “At every point” to some useful definition. Despite this artifact being based on the exploration of the “possibilities of a purely digital medium”, many of its passages let us think about tape-collage techniques, with Hansen using his turntables in joint forces with an array of different instruments and sources (the liners talk about cowbells, harmonicas, Vietnamese drums, electric guitar and amp) to prepare a fuming potion of timbres and atmospheres that range from the menacingly oneiric of “The alarm went off sooner than expected” and “An example of what I meant” through the metallic friction of “Tidying up after” and the electric pot-pourri of “Once held a lighter high in the sky”. Most of this music is finely composed, its articulation quite evident even in presence of sensual twilight; but it still leaves no space for interpretation, existing only in the very moment in which we listen to it then disappearing without leaving memories, only a wake of uncomfortableness. It’s a good sign.