Acht feels like a tribute to over-sensation, in all of its ecstasy and danger. Digital displacement (crackling, beeping computer processes) contradicts with tangible acoustics (the illusion of hearing an orchestra rehearsal from an adjacent corridor); elegant, far eastern drapes of pop try to establish simplicity within the bustling interconnections of a living landscape; time and space rub up against eachother as they attempt to operate in numerous modes simultaneously. At times, the pressure of these oppositions looks ready to explode the record into a gigantic technicolor firework. At others, the sense of synergetic equilibrium is absolutely invigorating – tender and almost accidental, like spotting the outlines of animals in cloud formations. Its melodies swoop and forget themselves like bird-flight – transitory, graceful – while synthesisers and strings escape their own bone structure to bloat and rebound dangerously across the stereo spectrum, in a similar manner to Autechre’s spasming bio-electronics.
I think of Bjork on many occasions, as Vittoria Fleet share her ability to thread one gesture seamlessly into the start of another. The music has no rhythmic edges, rolling onward in a manner that feels both liberating and slightly out of control – verses tumble into choruses before they feel ready, working the intimidating momentum into an illusion of composure. It’s like breakdancing by accident, as muscular electronic beats kick the body off kilter and force the songs into reflexes of posture adjustment, with church organs unravelling like blankets to catch the limbs of spiralling flutes and wayward lighthouse beams; springtime optimism navigating a treacherous course of home-made breakbeats and sudden mechanical breakdown. Hold on tight.