This cassette documents the first meeting between musicians Rob Noyes and Sam Moss, whose earthy serenades and shifting harmonies coalesce into some beautifully rough cuts of homegrown folk-primitivism. Though Moss is best known for his fingerstyle guitar, here he complements Noyes’ 12-string with violin; though there’s never a consistent lead/rhythm dynamic, the full-bodied octave jumps and open chords of the guitar always seem to interact with Moss’s tentative melodic scrambles and scratching fiddle double-string bows in the same way, their contributions circling in a graceful never-ending dance. Everything about this tape is gifted with a cozy, comforting looseness; I’m not sure if most of these tracks are improvisations or original compositions, but regardless many of them sound like initial takes, full of slight stutters and minor missteps that only make the proceedings more sublime. The imperfectness places us in the room with the duo, physically in the space where the notes collide, to hear the majesty of moments like the fleeting “Stairway to the Stairs” or the sparse conversation of “Double Double” as intimately as possible.

Recently, the Miami-based HologramLabel has put out a good amount of music that shares a loose but recognizable aesthetic, well exemplified by the recognizable names that have recently appeared in the catalog like Church Shuttle, TVE, and The Glass Path. The latter’s release was one of my favorites last year, and the recycled LP packaging sums up what’s going on; this is music that feels cobbled together, repurposed, salvaged from degrading tapes of synth jams or industrial clatter, garage sale ephemera, forgotten memories. Comfort Link’s newly released Behind the Console also occupies a similar vein, loops and concrete sounds and samples and nostalgia spun together into uneasy dreamworlds. At times, the album leans toward the abstractness of aforementioned releases, but at others, like the somber conclusion of “Londonderry Air,” it finds more common ground with the warbly bliss of Vision Board. There’s more diversity even beyond that as well; lengthy opener “On Time in Time” sputters and cycles in mechanical movement while organ patches are triggered like some sort of roughshod sound installation, “Ebb Tide” embodies its titular motion with an evolving tape loop that resolves in soft beauty, “Caravan” concludes things with yet more organ, this time shaped into layers of interlocking, harmonizing rhythmic throbs. A masterful piece of makeshift minimalism.

Competent sound artists are those who can organize or present sound in a compelling way. Skilled sound artists are able to imbue their work with something more: the unique perspective or relationship they have with the source material, the particular aspects of their gathered materials in which they are most interested, the slippery uncertainties at which their creations poke and prod can all be made sufficiently palpable by the hands of a true master of the craft. Marja Ahti is certainly one of those. The Current Inside, her second LP for Swiss label Hallow Ground (she’s also previously amazed me with releases like The Hole in the Landscape as Tsembla and Why Do Birds Suddenly Appear? with partner Niko-Matti Ahti), is as spare and striated as the ink drawing that adorns its cover, each of the five pieces carefully pieced together with delicate textural artifacts, resonant frequencies, and minimally processed field recordings in immersive arrays of tactile sound objects with the weightlessness and free movement of a gossamer sheet. Commissioned by INA GRM for Sonic Acts, the 20-minute “The Altitudes” occupies the entirety of the A side of the record and explores the beauty of the most abstract of earthly elemental interactions, “connecting and animating movements in the form of air, water and electricity.” In an approach perhaps truest to the origins of electroacoustic music, Ahti’s compositions dwell in resolute neutrality, her crystal-clear metallic vibrations, soft rattles, and natural extracts never tainted with conventional beauty or wanton ugliness. Instead, they drift like stark-white boats on a cold, current-less expanse of water, fleeting oases of land and foliage always in the distance, disembodied laments nestled in the breeze.

Fans of the music of Torino, Italy artist Lorenzo Abattoir have access to no shortage of quality material. Across releases by his solo project Nascitari, the LACH duo with fellow art-waller Clive Henry, and other collaborative ventures such as Psicopompo or his releases with Dave Kirby, Abattoir has proven himself to be a formidable source of both versatility and consistency. What we have been missing, however, is a proper solo release from the musician, a gap that’s finally filled with the recent release of A.throat.full.of.earth on newcomer sub-label Tides of Cluster. Abattoir’s trademark toolkit of staticky glitch ornamentation, stagnant rumble, and jittery cut-ups is on full display throughout the seven tracks that comprise this new CD, each composed using “objects, noise, [and] broken electronics” and acting as “methods for disclose [sic] a different psychological state” to overcome the artist’s “inability to communicate with words.” These are some of his most well-realized pieces yet, full of elusive ambiguities and paradoxes: there are always things moving but somehow each piece feels like an unyielding, claustrophobic cell of sound; the textures nip and cut but never tip over into full-on abrasive assaults; all elements are eternally fragmented, disparate, sometimes even repelling each other, yet what makes A.throat.full.of.earth so amazing is how they sound together in grudging coexistence, the lushness and detail that creates. The seam between “2 in.tangible” and “3 somber.path” also illustrates how superbly the transitions between tracks are executed; the divide between the two is unmistakable, as each segment seems to be treated as its own self-contained sound environment, but the hand-off is so smooth you might miss it if you’re not paying enough attention. To listen to this one is to stumble through a series of surreal dungeons with your eyes closed, bare feet shuffling over broken glass and electronic wreckage, the stabs and shocks piercing fantastic dreams of islands and sea monsters.

Choose the Speculum follows the titular and structural theme of a previous release by Max Eastman’s solo project Greathumour that I also greatly enjoyed: Choose the Forceps, which he released on his own imprint Tribe Tapes. Both releases are comprised of a large quantity of very short tracks and are meant to be listened to on shuffle, which due to the segmented nature of the pieces results in an indeterminate collage of sounds upon every instance of playback. Unsurprisingly, Eastman’s palette on Speculum is once again one of punishing intensity and grating sensory overload; samples are mercilessly processed via speed change, frequency dissection, and God knows what else so they can be mashed into bite-sized bits of digital destruction, which seem to be even more abrasive and adhesive-dissolving this time around. Eastman also provides footholds of sorts in the form of longer tracks like “X,” which runs nearly 20 times the length of most of the others and acts as a recognizable landmark amidst the uncertainty that a shuffle-ready release introduces. Choose the Speculum is a must-listen for any fans of the most extreme computer glitch music.

While some artists are uniquely interested in certain sounds that inevitably result in their work being classified as “subversive” or “experimental,” others seem to oppose convention more broadly, avoiding what is commonly considered to be “normal” music at all costs. Alan Courtis is one such artist; as a member of legendary avant-garde trio Reynols he participated in releases as diversely strange as 10.000 Chickens’ Symphony and Blank Tapes, and in his solo career has put out countless curiosities and collaborations under a deliberate misspelling of his own name. ATSPRRRCHEXS is his newest material, emerging on the Irish label Fort Evil Fruit unexpectedly soon after their superb March batch, and presents four pieces composed with field recordings and processing. Musique concrète is a relatively unusual tradition, but in terms of its own identity and history it has a well-established canon of practice and execution. Unsurprisingly, Courtis’s brand is distinctly his own; in the words of the label, these recordings have been expertly psychedelicised, certain angles and edges shaved off and amplified to create focused distortions of reality. Discomfort is rampant in opener “ATS,” which counters a sweaty electronic shimmy with grating tape manipulation like angry swarms of bees, but things get more pleasant throughout the remainder of the tape, and the closing gong-only track doesn’t even seem out of place. The Argentinian Anomaly is alive and kicking.

The young Italian sound artist Renato Grieco displays a tremendous amount of range across his relatively small discography, his virtuosic dissections sometimes evoking warm, comfortable domesticity (Queste cose non avvennero mai ma sono sempre / Rlecchinesque) and other times fashioning jagged juxtapositions, surreal sludge, and atmospheres with compelling ambiguity (Double Goocher Shop, Granchio Pinocchio). This new release, for which Grieco is joined by countryman Francesco Tignola (who frequently releases music as Elisha Morningstar, a project with which I definitely need to better familiarize myself), mostly belongs to the latter camp. The four tracks that comprise Hibernacula are full of layered, detailed, intricate music, but also probably isn’t the best thing to get stoned to; opening track “Two” is a a dense, restless mass of paranoia, a lushly arranged array of rustles, thumps, knocks-on-doors from all directions, ringing bells—but it never boils over into full-blown insanity, instead sticking to the corners and shadows, fleeing from the light. Though Glistening Examples head Jason Lescalleet’s only contribution to Hibernacula was his reliably superb mastering work, I hear a lot of his influence here, especially near the end of “One,” a moment where pitched-down vocals and electronic drones make for some rare, fleeting beauty. This short album slithers back into its hole after less than half an hour, but many repeat listens are necessary to decipher it all.

The UK-based Seth Cooke is easily one of my favorite sound artists working in the new millennium. Such high praise is not based purely on my opinion of his work itself (which is often the case), but rather what it means, what questions it implores me to ask, what it says about this “music” thing to which I devote so much of my time. These factors are more important than ever in the case of Selected Works for No-Input Field Recorder, Cooke’s newest release that acts as a sequel of sorts to previous 3″ documents such as Four No-Input Field Recordings and Sightseer. Selected Works actually collects four distinct 3″-length projects, some of which were intended for individual release while others were made specifically for the set. If you’ve never heard what exactly Cooke means when he talks about “no-input field recordings,” this is an excellent place to start; unlike Sightseer, the magnifying glass is focused entirely on the inner workings of the popular Zoom H4n recorder. It’s never revealed how exactly the sounds are captured—whether it’s some electromagnetic detection apparatus, post-recording digital manipulation, some combination of the two, or something else entirely—but somehow this is the least of our concerns. Cooke states that An Agoraphobe was created as a direct follow-up to Sightseer; “rather than contrasting the inside/outside of the recorder it just contrasts different approaches to inside.” The emphasis is placed not on the unusual approach Cooke takes, nor even the strange sonic results it generates, but instead on the phenomenon of listening to something we’re not supposed to hear, accessing some dimension of transparency that perhaps doesn’t need to be accessed. We hear stagnant static hums, blasts of electronic dead-air, digital pings and pulses, but what exactly is it? The sound of an inactive device? A recorder recording nothing? The totality of Cooke’s masterful ambiguity is realized with the packaging of Selected Works: a “2GB micro SD card encased in a 4cm x 4cm x 4cm silicone moulded black concrete cube, painted with Stuart Semple’s Black 2.0. The micro SD is highly unlikely to work and cannot be recovered without destroying the cube.” Because how on Earth else would this be delivered in a physical format?

Everything and/or nothing. At once a singular and engaging electronic odyssey, a considered conceptual piece, and a satirization of the music industry’s over-reliance on physical objects. At once a useless, broken storage card of boring sonic interference, half a paperweight, and concrete dust all over your desk. Why not both?