Sapporo-born, Berlin resident Tetsuya Hori is a composer who applies his methods both on instruments and “things”, as perfectly demonstrated by this record which contains three notebook-enhanced works for, respectively, beer bottle, glass of water and flute, the latter played by Ryoko Sakurai. “My compositions have no concept. That’s my concept” declares Hori, whose work fundamentally exploits the juxtaposition of deeply booming pulses while travelling across territories that spread parallel to improvisation; the picture is one of a monk intent in caring for a bonsai but also keeping an eye on what happens in the monastery’s courtyard, strangely not exactly peaceful as it should be. Stretched out shapes and nebulous geometries are generated from a scarcity of basic elements that, in this case, is unquestionably a plus: the music is in fact particularly concentrated, its power broadening through long-lasting structures filled by extraordinary low-frequency throbs, especially evident in “For beer bottle and laptop” where apparently unproblematic insufflations gradually mutate into an affecting texture of non-combustible gaseous matter. The same cavernous atmospheric alterations emphasize the bubbling character of “For glass of water and laptop”, which makes splendid use of the impressively resounding qualities of an element that by now has become an easy-to-the-ear commonplace (I myself admit that listening to it still gives me pleasure, though). “For flute and laptop” begins with an echoing dearth of sonic constituents – sparse bouncing droplets of note scraps – but, sure enough, slowly increases its population of events minute after minute, soon reaching the intensity level of the other two pieces despite a measure of rarefaction. Sakurai fuses her voice with semi-regular breathy emissions and selected technical tricks, the whole transformed in a wordless homage to the manumission of instrumental certitude, ending with the flute morphed into a desert wind. This writer’s first investigation of Tetsuya Hori’s theories signifies a positive reception, including the will of telling “listen to this” to a lot of counterfeit computer-twiddling “artists”.