Epiphany: a sudden moment of realisation, thickening in the mind out of nothing. A patient, metronomic millipede scuttle shimmying out of the inertia of self-renewing chime decay (N0ngrata + edGeCut), or a fleeting acknowledgement of Zen-like cyclical completion within the warm draft and black soot of a clunky air ventilation unit (Andy Guhl + Jasch + Eish Less); the inaudible click of my brain slotting sound into the shape of my personal understanding, or even just the phantom materialisation of soundscapes from within the vacant, quiet expectation of my headphones before I hit play. Listening is both an epiphany and a gateway to further misunderstanding; the answer to my questions, and the birthplace of so many more.
On “Exactly Three Minutes” (Salomé Voegelin), I hear sharp gasps announcing anaerobic muscle heaves, frantic clangs of hollow metal poles and the assertive, erratic smack of factory switches; it’s too chaotic to be part of routine industrial labour, and yet the sound feels nonetheless like a mere bi-product caught within a much bigger objective. On “Patterns In Fractals” (edGeCut), my immediate space becomes an endless corridor of panic and pulsation, as I hurtle toward a destination I can’t quite see. There are jolts of rhythmic punctuation, and sometimes they span across voids of drone like steel bridges (Cisfinitum), and sometimes they spasm like a broken body trying to dance to dub (Grischa Lichtenberger); the compilation switches between turbulent hallucination and modulated real spaces, leaving sewer acoustics (L’Saaz) to transit directly into birdsong, fluttering sun glare and magical dream recollection (Robin Meier).
Yet I still feel a thread of cohesion running through Epiphany: the sense of constant questioning, the championing of naivety over mastery; an invigorating faith in what should be done without a vivid comprehension of the why. I am guided into the darkness by those who are none the wiser: pushed into the reactive hum of medical electronics and pebbles of beat on “Etude No 11, Entrelacs” (Hans Koch + Ish S), dangled upside-down between the drapes of unpredictable feedback on “Passage To The City” (Buddhaditya Chattopadhyay). We lean into the unknown together.