Embedded in the repetition of these reduced synthesiser refrains is the insistence to listen again. There’s always more to hear, even within the context of so little. The listener mind snags upon a different rhythmic emphasis after two minutes, flipping the picture sideways; jagged details blunt themselves through familiarity and fall back, coaxing others to the fore; phantom melodies crystallise upon the punctuative pops. Change is definitely occurring within the sounds themselves too – some tones start to glisten or squeak, others contract into inkdots – and these modulations slide against the restless reconfiguration of listener perception. Between them, they ensure that the impression left by these pieces on conclusion is a world away from that on commencement, even if it’s not always possible to pinpoint what actually changed.
One constant is the emphasis of physical touch. “Krakowian” has the depth and muffled impact of fists pummelling a cupboard door. The lop-sided stutter of “Legs _ Indexes” feels at times like a scuffed balloon and at others like fruit dropped on kitchen tiles. Even the more overtly “synthetic” textures – the squelch of “Battery Acid+”, for example – transcend association with their source instrument, more reminiscent of internal organs than analogue electronics. And so perhaps the enveloping satisfaction of this record comes from its melded concern with mind and body – of psychoacoustic dissection and warm, blood-pumping tactility – pressing upon both cortex and skin in all manner of fleeting patterns.