I don’t know whether anyone else has experienced that delusional (or revelatory?) process of listening so intently within a particular space – a generator room or a forest, for example – that one starts to uncover a hidden music and harmony that exists between its unique and fortuitous congregation of sounds. A series of separate noises from all directions start to congeal and communicate; negotiating frequency bands between them, constructing a composition out of natural sounds and sonic by-products. The opening throws of Where Textus Became Textus seems to mimic this experience: radiator hum and gently whirring motors peel back to reveal the tonality resonating through their inners, sounding somewhat hollow in the raspy sound of industry but possessive of some mysterious inkling of life and spirit.
Even as the 40-minute piece drifts away from its initial station, the landscapes to follow continue to be characterised by a ghost of music concealed within a relentless factory din; tiny morsels of mutual understanding in amongst massive, white noise gushes of indistinction. Petals’ sources aren’t revealed, one gets the sense that old mediums (vinyl? tape?) gift the record its archival hiss and crackle; in all it’s like some EVP equivalent for the previous or hidden lives of machinery, complete with a slight nod to spiralling, deep-space sci-fi in the writhing synth arpeggiation of its closing few minutes.