Perhaps the stylings of Max Nordile’s recordings under his own name and those as Hair Clinic were destined to converge. The distinct outlets have always shared a good-natured holism in their approach to soundmaking, prizing wrong notes and accidental overhearings alongside half-arranged basement serenades and focused object-bothering. But the exact relationship between the two is hard to pinpoint, which is likely intentional. Hanging by a Fan Over Wet Cement, credited to Max Nordile Hair Clinic, has a lot in common with the solely eponymous Gilgongo releases Building a Better Void and Copper in the Arts as well as last year’s Hot Bev’s Prime Melters cassette on Nordile’s own Music for People imprint, all of which feature instrumentality and environmental extracts in tandem, but the careless field sketches of “Jim’s Place” and domestic improv of At Work and at Home also belong in the lineage. Long story short, everything this guy puts out is good, and this new LP is no exception. Squeaks and scrapes of all sizes and shapes, whether they come from the squawking reeds of “Autotots” and “Off Yew Sounds” or the tactile rattle of “Lois Tenino” and “Beet Soup,” comprise a sort of unifying set of textures that helps wrangle the sonic potpourri into something more easily digestible. But the ever-shifting supply of sounds also retains its dynamism, making the record feel like a suite that even has a hint of narrative—the nomadic guitar ritual “Mug Under Roof” and dream-logic collage “Holt Larf” especially are dramatic little vignettes, the kind that come to life on stages made from driftwood and flea-market furniture. And closer “RnR Dalmation,” though the shortest, might also be my favorite; where else other than a Max Nordile track can you listen to an orchestra of scrap jinglebells, ripped adhesive tape, squeaky toys, and preloaded plastic keyboard samples?

Following the recording and eventual release of the Dawn Simulation full-length CD on Chondritic, perhaps the project’s most ambitious and fully realized work yet, Tomb Mold titan and underground mainstay Max Klebanoff has continued to keep busy with his Death Kneel alias, putting out a series of short ‘n sweet tapes on in-house imprint Life of Sensation over the past seven-or-so months. Each of the succinct slices (a C10, C11, and C14, respectively) has provided an opportunity to explore the more caustic facets of his distinct and multifarious take on heavy electronics: both Seneca Hill Haymaker and Agonizer deal in glitchy cut-up and rough-edged concrète, and the newly available Burning Grip continues this winning trend, hoisting the already intense formula to new heights with an emphasis on density, volatility, and all-around extremity. The limited real estate leaves little to no room for patient dynamic builds or sustained soundscapes; “Dogfish Head Piledriver” gets right down to business with a flailing assault of brittle crunch, the first forty-five seconds alone crammed with so many rapid-fire bursts, stuttering skips, and pulverized samples that it’s just as tempting to start over and take it all in again as it is to keep listening. The remaining six minutes of the track, as well as the B side’s “Mixing My Bastards (Reactive Edit),” burrow further into the possibilities offered by this streamlined yet still diverse approach, cycling texture after texture through a punishing assembly line of automated wringers, mincers, and blenders. It may be a focused and even slightly divergent subset of the sound that made Dawn Simulation and its predecessor Adaptive Emotional Use such rewarding works, but this is still unmistakably Death Kneel: the mongrelized fusion of digital detail and analog grit, the seething mecha-industrial simmer, the gnash and snarl of a caged beast chewing through its chains.

Copies are available via email: lifeofsensation@gmail.com.

Improvised music is at its best when it just is, pure expression without pretenses. Necessarily self-funded, this humble approach has sustained itself via open-access internet platforms in recent decades and home-taping/trading long before that. The latter tradition is no relic lost to history, but a stubborn survivor even in a devoutly digital age, and we have it to thank for excellent art like this. When G-Tech operator Seamus Williams (TVE, A[e]yurvedic Tapes) and Mickey O’Hara (whose Bituminous Concrete Curb Detail on Ayurvedic I reviewed here last October) record and/or perform as Lean, they use nebulous junk assemblages that hum, hiss, crackle, and crumble with liquid ease, their considered interactions landing somewhere between Creode and GOD on the homegrown tabletop electronics spectrum. All of the Lean material collected on Sounds, and in fact all of the duo’s work, can be—and are, by Williams himself—described as simply “jams”: low-stakes, open-ended meetings of the minds that are as exploratory as they are expressive. On Sounds, a C60 of new material culled from the past six or so months, it’s pretty much impossible to tell who’s doing what… but that hardly matters with stuff like this. It opens with a bold bout of bass-heavy currents that retreat just as quickly as they arrive, leaving behind a simmer of cracked circuits and brooding drones. Radio plays a prominent role throughout, both as pure static and garbled half-tuned broadcast, always used gently and texturally (instead of disrupting the flow with full-on grabs). These aren’t just jams in terms of mindset, but also with regard to how they pan out: not impatient but not exactly patient either, eager to move and evolve with plenty of attention still paid to a general arc. The lengthy second track ends with a bang, making way for a B side that’s more restrained but no less fun.

Copies are available via email: seamusrwilliams@gmail.com.

At the heart of Clinton Green’s latest is the humbly bewitching sound of several broken Walkmans looping over themselves and each other in a jittery, microscopic dance. According to the Shame File star himself, “Loose internal speakers from the Walkmans are positioned between the spindle and play-head. The parts cling together magnetically, yet are agitated by the turning spindle, creating not-quite-regular rhythms punctuated by magnetic/electronic interference.” It’s an approach that has a lot of potential despite its minimalism, a potential that is explored in depth throughout. But in a surprising turn of events (literally; beware the jump scare), the textures and twitches of the miniature motorized network are just one element of A Conduit, especially in eclectic opener “Allegations of Ventriloquism.” I already thought it was a great title, but the lengthy track—described as “a psychodrama; an opera”—delves into said allegations in  a much more concrete manner than I expected, introducing a paranoid narrative via beamed-in speech scraps (provided by Michael McNab, Allan Stewart, Michael Zulicki, and Green himself), slurred tape delirium, and abstract turntable tactility. This last element acts as a kind of structural glue for the loose-strung collage, harmonizing with the miniscule rattle of the Walkmans as the skips and clunks respond to the bass and color of the sampled bits. The much briefer “Emucounter” is stripped down but no less mysterious, bringing the unmistakable buzz of an electromagnetic swarm to the foreground while guitars and reeds cavort upstage. And “Stopcock (Alleged)” is an almost scientific meditation, examining the effects of different placement configurations in a patient lead-up to a twist ending. I would be interested to hear a release that focused on the Walkmans on their own, but they also work so well here as both vital organ and connective tissue.

Ciutats, for all of the meticulous composition that went into its production, has the spirit of station-surfing as you cruise around on a lazy afternoon. Lès Modernos (Noiseau sound artist and DJ Loïc Ponceau) makes use of an eclectic range of source material for this short suite, each piece a loosely assembled skeleton of soulful loops, spectral dissections, and rebellious harmonies. “Lacques 1” immediately introduces the fleeting, fragile intrigue that drives the brief collages, its fractured rearrangement of a darkly dramatic folk song echoing the haunting palette of Arca’s Entrañas. The various loop fragments have both the stuttering physicality of analog tape and the freedom of digital decontextualization, darting around each other in circles and zigzags, a waltzing sonic shadow-play. “Soleil pour toi” and “Habitat 1” are more overtly synthetic tracks, finding uncanny beauty in the contrast between dusty, delicate melodies and processed vocal samples. The frame narrative of an aimless drive is ever present in the way some sounds are heard directly and others seem to be playing from the dashboard speakers as we sit in the backseat, the notes struggling to slip through despite an imperfectly tuned radio dial. Everything—especially the abstract patchwork of “Au cabanyal”—leads up to “Lacques 2,” a lazy whirlpool of sublime, surreal murk that beckons you to submerge yourself in its humid embrace.