For over a decade, Australian artist Philip Sulidae has been probing the most remote depths of sound to create his spellbindingly fragile works, with releases on Unfathomless (History of Violence, Ramshead), Verz (Glass), Linear Obsessional (Conurb), Audio. Visuals. Atmosphere. (Le Voile), and his own Hemisphäreの空虚 (Variations on Plastic, Petrification and Strife), among others. His newest release, Perplexor on LINE, is a deeply conceptual work of electrical interference, delicate whispers, and empty space. Described quite ambiguously as “a deference and conjecture for past and present sound,” the set of three pieces are carefully assembled from the wispy, crumbling remnants of sounds and memories lost to time. Each acts as a humbly vague reconstruction of a particular place at a particular time, but since those times are so long ago (1970, 1929, 1894), both the reconstructor and the listener are left only with a few vestigial fixtures swathed in the ghostly shroud of all the moments that have been trampled by history’s ever-surging stampede. As we drift through the barely-substantial forms of Sulidae’s diaphanous weavings, we latch onto the few sonic landmarks that occasionally surface amidst the void—car honks, rainfall, distant clatter—but they’re gone as soon as they arrive, leaving us scrambling for purchase, a futile action when surrounded by nothingness. Perplexor, perhaps appropriately, is an uncanny experience, a skillful construction of absence-with-presence, but it is also tremendously beautiful.

Field recordists often use latitude and longitude coordinates as titles for their pieces, and as listeners we trust that those coordinates point to the actual location where the recordings were made. But at the same time, it doesn’t really matter if they do or not. The role of a phonographer is hardly ever to create a comprehensive auditory portrayal of their environment; much more frequently, they aim to provide a particular perspective on a sonic event or series of events, and that particularity is inherently guaranteed by the observer’s uniqueness as an individual—and, of course, can be supplemented by unconventional techniques or post-capture synthesis. I don’t have any doubt that the coordinates given for A. F. Jones’ release harborside are accurate (according to Google Maps, the precise location is quite close to the artist’s home base of Tracyton, WA, just east of Seattle), but his careful presentation of both on-site recordings and interactive synthesis transcends simple documentation or representation—when listening to “47°33’41.3″N | 122°37’31.7″W,” we aren’t transported to that quaint dock in Bremerton, but instead to a singular soundscape that integrates space, tension, and immersion with the location’s specific quirks. Swells of excited conversations, hypnotic drones, and windswept rustle rush in and out just like the waves that persistently lap at the shore, constructing a balance of meditative headspace and human unpredictability in a similar vein as Ludwig Berger’s Cargo. Meticulously composed and paced, harborside is one of the most engaging field recording compositions I’ve heard in a long time.

Artistic comparisons, in my opinion, are not something that should be used carelessly. Too often we fail to examine a work holistically, and instead focus on particular aspects that may allow us to make easy connections to things we already know. This is a misstep that I think is rooted in a human desire for familiarity, a need to break new and unknown things down into fragments that we can connect to existing experiences. I say all this because I immediately compared the new release from Serbian improviser Tijana Stanković, Freezer, to Polly Bradfield’s infamous classic Solo Violin Improvisations based purely on the approach taken. Any improvised work that makes use of the creaks and squeals of a small-bodied string instrument is inevitably indebted to Bradfield’s landmark opus, whether intentionally or not, but as sympathetic listeners it is an egregious disservice to in any way disregard the infinite nuance and creativity that freely improvised music makes possible—especially in this case, for Freezer is in a league all its own. Stanković not only makes use of the standard palette of extended techniques, preparations, pizzicato, and unconventional bowing to produce these pieces; she adds further detail with vocal elements that draw influence from Balkan folk music, the agitated, trembling drones almost imitating the shivers that might creep into one’s voice if one were actually trapped in the meat freezer where she recorded the album. “To freeze is to preserve,” Stanković states, a fitting mantra for a permanent document of music that is inherently impermanent and instantaneous. Fans of Solo Violin Improvisations will no doubt greatly enjoy Freezer, but don’t go in expecting a simple modern reimagining; this new work is a singular exploration into both personal and universal ideas that defy verbal communication.

I never seem to run out of great music to review from Belgian sound artist Ludovic Medery (a.k.a. Fissures), nor does he ever seem to run out of inspiration or motivation for making some of the finest contemporary acousmatic music out there. rOto rElieF is simply the latest in an oeuvre that also includes wonderful releases such as Rituels, Les voix du matin, and MORPHOSIS (two of which I’ve written about for this site), but like all of Medery’s work it doesn’t at all suffer from his predilection for prolificacy. “Face A” carves out a stuttering, hypnotic form from a series of concrete sound loops; there’s rhythm in the sense of reliable repetition but not nearly enough to grab onto for support as even more shifting components are added to the mix, notably the fragmented speech samples that kick in around the three minute mark. In accordance with the playful, colorful surreality of the album cover, the piece is unstable but nonetheless vibrant and infectious as it maintains its tottering amble, briefly falling into respite before a new mess of kinetic, mangled clink and clatter takes hold. The gap between “A” and “B” is astutely stitched together by a fractured tape recording, which despite presenting a largely familiar and unmanipulated sonic environment is almost as jittery and space-defying as the more abstract sounds that preceded it. It’s also an appropriate lead-in to the latter half of the album, which starts things off with an array of more organic-sounding elements than the former before returning to the unifying palette of squeaking machinery. rOto rElieF is a symphony of moving parts, microscopic mechanisms, organized entropy; if you’ve ever found yourself enraptured by the sound of those gear-system toys at playgrounds (because I certainly have), look no further than this release for a similar fix.

Apart from just having one of the year’s best album covers so far, American Cig’s new CD Nausea is a superb and fascinating release. I know little about the duo—just that they’ve put out a handful of releases on excellent DIY labels like Barton Street and Male Activity, and I’d previously encountered Nathan Ivanco’s solo noise project Marion through Taping Vol. 1 on A R C H I V E—but their “music” speaks for itself. American Cig practices a form of free improvisation situated somewhere between the erudite reticence of AMM and the industrial clatter of Morphogenesis, using tapes, voice, electronics, and strings to conjure mysterious, metallic soundscapes. Despite its seemingly synthetic origins, opening track “Domestic Incident” seems to consist of just what its title implies as Ivanco and Smith improvise to what sounds like steady rainfall outside of the recording space. As the track moves into its latter part, “The Witch’s Bottle,” the duo ramp up their interactions to produce a restless cacophony of tape loops, stuttering strings, and growling rumble, yet it’s one that still feels tense and restrained. What with the threatening atmosphere and shrieking strings, I can’t help but be reminded of Tobe Hooper and Wayne Bell’s harrowing score for the original Texas Chain Saw Massacre—a compliment which, coming from me, is of the highest order. American Cig continues with both the apt track titles and the compelling amalgam of organic and mechanical sounds as “Boiler Room Persuasion” begins with the unmistakable sounds of splashing water. “Noxious Tide” brings Nausea to a jittery and fitting end as the sonic equivalent of a metal noose tightens around our necks—the machines have invaded our private spaces, and things will never be the same again.

Modular synthesis is one of those things that I (personally) can observe, witness, be taught extensively, and still have no idea how any of it works. And I kind of like it that way; I think I’m so partial to music that utilizes the modular synth as an active compositional tool because the method used is simultaneously so transparent and mysterious. Everyone has a unique approach to this incredibly versatile instrument, and we see the true magic that can be conjured by modular wizards on wonderful releases like alpha privative’s debut tape monoclinic. I know nothing about this new project other than the traditional meaning of the phrase “alpha privative” (the a- or an- prefixes in front of words like “asynchronous” or “anesthetic”) and that it originates from Denver, Colorado. monoclinic doesn’t necessitate much more context than that, though; its sheeny, languid currents of heavily processed concrete sounds are directly descended from the classic form of musique concrète practiced by eminent creatives like Beatriz Ferreyra or François Bayle, where not only is composition the final step in the music-making process but the final product is an array of sound whose origin is of no consequence, and all that’s left is an array of completely new materials produced through careful alteration, layering, and sequencing. The tape is also distinctly modern, however, with a subtle but pleasant element of conventional ambience nestled throughout the darkly effervescent cascades of ringing strings and gleaming chimes. At just 22 minutes, alpha privative’s inaugural release is a well-executed and concise exercise in abstract atmospherics.

Slabs of textural harsh noise come in many forms, and as listeners the quality we are most often drawn to first is what we perceive the sound’s origin to be; some artists’ noise seems to fall pitter-patter from the sky like rain, others’ gives the impression that it’s bubbling up from the ground beneath us, and sometimes there’s not really an illusion of direction at all, cases where the noise just simply, well, exists. None of the previous categories describe JSH’s track “Pieces” though, which howls into squalling existence from some indiscernable source point at the back of our heads, an undammed jet of heavy static that occasionally lashes against its mono-imprisonment and flits into stereo. That quality is also what makes the nearly half-hour piece remain engaging throughout its duration; this is no wall, so the artist is constantly constricting and contorting the mass of noise, but that vicious forward velocity is never extricated from the music, even in its most reserved moments. Towards the end of “Pieces” is where its strength truly becomes apparent, as squeals of screeching feedback and mangled vocal additions sew discord in the already collapsing cacophony. If we continue discussing motion, Körperlich’s “Afflicted” acts as a slight counterpoint to the chaotic sonic barreling on the preceding side, the paths of its more classic palette distortion pedal and radio adopting more of a lateral trajectory across the stereo field. The radio grabs are overused and even detrimental throughout the first half of the track, but it regains its footing with a well-executed progression from a stretch of fragmented clatter into the muck that acts as a conclusion.

Daniel J. Gregory’s modest description of himself as “object botherer” couldn’t be more accurate. Whether he’s assaulting audiences with the amplified sounds of clattering detritus as half of the art-noisecore duo Gregory/McGrory (check out Gateway to Conclusion) or recording an album with the classic singer/songwriter palette of “acoustic guitar, plastic cups, biscuit tins, singing bowl, dry pasta, [and] throat” (Kebab Shop Will Sell Ice Cream), Gregory’s “music” is as skittery and unpredictable as the piles of junk and trash we kick aside every day. Such a direct approach to soundmaking is certainly within the realm of the scruffy, DIY experimentalism I love so dearly, but Gregory always seems to have a point or purpose in mind for his various releases, implicit conceptual facets that reach far beyond the music’s humble essence. Heard Under Orphan Eyelid consists entirely of recordings taken with a mobile phone (of much higher fidelity than any my own phone has ever yielded) and deals with a sense of place in flux. Each piece presents a sonic focus—radio improvisations, malfunctioning electronica, claustrophobic capture of a plastic bag’s innards—that clashes with the environment it occupies. We cling to what we perceive as the primary element of each track but are consistently betrayed as other forces make us aware of Gregory’s surroundings, which despite being dwarfed by their occupants often come across with far greater lucidity: hands make contact with the physical form of the phone, a turn signal clicks on, a sound event ends and nothing is left to do but scramble to end the recording. Heard Under Orphan Eyelid is a rough-edged affair of observation, action, and transmission that reaches for—and, inexplicably, grasps—the sublime.

One might not think that a stylistic amalgam of black/extreme metal and gabber could be in any way fruitful. There are a lot of ways disparate combinations can fall flat, but somehow McClane’s newest self-released album doesn’t resort to gimmicks or rely on novelty, and truly assimilates these two genres into something entirely singular. There’s not much time to think about any of this once SALE CONTRE TOUS actually starts, though, because after a short introduction “LESS IS MORT” arrives with crushing force. The riffs are often played by plasticky synths, stretched and layered in uncanny facsimiles of tremolo guitar picking, while a metronomic beat pounds away—half four-on-the-floor, half blast beat. On “CRACKHEADBANG,” an interlude of mangled samples and half-formed melodies gives way to a breakdown that actually does the track’s title justice. The rest of the album sees McClane exploring catchy, infectious arrangements with “URO DANCE” or a balance between uplifting trance/rave electronica and destructive metal assaults that doesn’t sacrifice the impact of either on “ZBEUL THEM ALL.” After a strange industrial-strength shuffling hip-hop interlude SALE CONTRE TOUS finds a memorable conclusion in its title track, an ambitious and grandiose anthem complete with complex instrumental arrangements and even a substantial amount of cleverly used claps. This is one of the most singular things I’ve heard in a long time that still incorporates so much of what I know and love already.