(Creative Sources)

The surefooted – if barely perceptible – liberalization of a sexless perfidiousness crawling around this quartet’s sonic prospects represents the passage from the unembodied contiguities of groups like AMM to the long-headed analyses of electroacoustic foeta that not even the involved musicians can predict the future of. Resonant strings – Davies’ harp or Eckhardt’s viola – suddenly raise clouds of blemished imagery in squawking telepathy, while Hayward and Capece prepare a full drainage of malfunctioning lungs transforming their fatigue in a miniature power plant. The sum of the parts consists of a worm-eaten geometry of loopholes from disciplined obstinateness, rich in ample morphing and bitty statements of intent. This music has the same dangerous behaviour of a stricken serpent who is not dead yet: touch it barehanded and you’re done.

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