It’s a nice name for a record, because I get the impression that Genus Inkasso doesn’t entirely comprehend the rationale behind his own musical twitches and twists. Odd Little Gestures is a 26-minute exercise in acting without the obstruction of forethought or self-analysis; letting the hands enact the will of the subconscious without the nervous pestering of the conscious mind. Lurches of extracted orchestral music, synthesisers fed through spools of damaged tape, choruses of sirens and mechanical distress, tampered recordings of rattled objects. I stagger through the composition blindfolded, arms anxiously outstretched, curiously patting and squeezing each sound as my hands come into contact with it. I’m unsure as to what I’m interacting with, or why it happens to be situated where it is. Sometimes it’s nice to tread the path of curiosity without answers to cut the journey short.
In its own herky-jerky way, everything flows. Transitions are conducted like games of word association; a particular detail within one soundscape will be used as the kernel for the next. The tinkle of digitised wind chimes hangs above the booms of electronic popcorn in a microwave, which in turn becomes the convulsive bed beneath a strange conversation between reverse cymbals and murmured voices, with the latter taking the opportunity to coax a faint orchestral loop – a romantic, rather nostalgic glimmer of strings – into the frame. The experience passes in flurry of noise and questioning; postponed familiarity and regenerative curiosity, shunting me from one strange room to the next, dragging me away before I have the opportunity to suss anything out. Indeed – these gestures are odd and little, and that’s about all I can confirm.