On Home Recordings, Wataru Okumura’s first release, the Japanese sound artist is entirely unconcerned with concealing the humble origins (improvisational sound experiments and studies) and instrumental palette (guitar, bass, and sampler) of his minimal music, and yet it nonetheless reaches heights of emotion and intimacy that even much more technically complex works fail to grasp. Whether Okumura is percussively plucking strings or tinkering with various snippets bound to trigger pads, his creations shudder and shake into existence with organic flexibility like some dazed, emaciated figure waking after years of deep sleep. Especially in the case of “Domestic Improvisation 1,” which makes use of more conventionally tonal components than the following two tracks, these brief sonic sketches somehow feel unshakably personal and handcrafted, probably because of their innate “inwardness”—that is to say, despite however many additional materials Okumura adds to his soundscapes, everything seems to sprout from a single center point, a singularity in the dense household silence out of which countless minuscule fragments of fragile anti-silence are coaxed. The final moments of “Domestic Music Concrete Study 2” are a perfect example of this ostensibly contradictory simultaneous structure: tangible scrapes and shuffles twirl in tenuous orbit around a hypnotic air-current drone that emanates from everywhere and nowhere at once… before it’s all extinguished in a sudden but surprisingly natural cessation.

The sprawling TELLEMENT PAS ZEN is a lengthy offering of more formless electronic music scoured from dusty cable drawers, obsolete warehouse stock piled precariously on sagging shelves, and barely functioning thrift store junk. Though the well-established duo project of Yannick Chayer and Alain Lefebvre recorded their individual contributions remotely during the winter months of the pandemic, the music still has a very present, exploratory feel to it, as if the two musicians weren’t aware of each other as they obliviously experimented on opposite sides of the same room. There’s plenty of palpable seams from what at least sounds like careful post-production stitching and assemblage—the somehow pleasingly tacked-on ending of “Ami.e.So ix10, (P)(r)ickles”; the abrupt, artificial cuts and contortions of the higher frequencies in “n”; the mesmerizing stereo spread of “gHO5T5 in Y.C.” and “Clouds, Dice, Flowers”—but the fluid, layered physicality that forms the backbone of most of the album keeps the engaging and endearing element of manual, real-time improvisation palpable. In terms of duration, scope, eclecticism, weirdness, you name it, TELLEMENT PAS ZEN is a release that strives not to do it all, but at least a solid chunk—and it succeeds. You’ll find yourself often more compelled by the chaotic, psychedelic instrumental accompaniments than the bizarre accounts of paranormal interactions in the pair of “Strange Encounter” pieces, be gradually won over by the ridiculous and yet undeniably pleasing sitar antics throughout “PAAN STAIN RAG,” and get lost in the mesmerizing narrative soundscape that comprises “bIGFOOT sOUR bLUES,” none of which feel amiss on this masterwork of outlandish diversity.

Some of you may be noticing a pattern among my 2021 reviews: I’ve been especially concerned with releases of the harsh variety. This may be because the offerings at this particular time happen to be exceptionally excellent, or because I haven’t been to a noise show in over a year and miss them so goddamn much, or both, or neither—maybe I’m just broken. Beaten, defeated, laid out across the ground, we sink into the soft loam of the cemetery and past the subterranean network of interconnected crypts, from which emanates the sounds captured on A Hermetic Plot. There must have been a delicate process for exhuming this auditory gunk and preparing it for (living) human ears because that mezzanine murk still permeates every second of the two ten-minute slabs. Each lumbers with the rotting, earthy immobility of death while being shaken and ripped through by currents of life and pain as the armies of decomposers start in on their projects. The dense bricolages of rumbling gloom-choked distortion, contact mic intrusions like massive salivating jaws swinging blood-speckled jowls to and fro, and sporadic shrieks of feedback are at once punishing and alluring; many of you are probably familiar with the “appreciative grimace” response, but this is different—more like a capitulating look of faint horror and disgust. This is truly bleak, filthy stuff, bolstered by both its bloated stasis and its volatile disintegrations. “PLAY LOUD FOR ALL TO BE REVEALED.”

The most fascinating and consistently high-quality wall noise netlabel right now (correctly spelled A B S E N T     E R R A T U M but poor WordPress can’t handle it) is back with i’m not alive, i’m an echo, which is and always will be the sole release by 𝘸𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘱𝘵.𝘸𝘢𝘷. It begins with the delicate sounds of a personal tape recorder being turned on and a muttered monologue delivered with the accompaniment of distant crickets and chattering children. I have no idea what the person is saying, nor even what language they’re speaking, but the snippet nonetheless sets the tone of the remainder of the track (poignantly titled “forever shore”) to one of somber reflection or lament—to my ignorant ears the words sound as though they could be an intimate confession, a long-held secret, a dying wish. In the wider context of the genre, these sampled introductions only really work as precursors to successful walls if the transition between the two is executed perfectly, and this one sure as hell is: upon the completion of the preamble the tape recorder shuts off again, the force of the switch being flipped allowing the noise to surge into existence with an immensely satisfying immediacy. The soft, cotton-wisp crackle is initially confined exclusively to the left channel, and for a few moments it’s as though half the light in a room has been unceremoniously clicked off. The central drama of “forever shore” is found in that missing half’s slow seep back into being, an organic but deliberate duality that forces separate processing of each current even after their volume levels equalize, forming a fluid, interactive soundscape that gradually unifies itself. It’s wonderful releases like this that demonstrate not only how beautiful static noise can be, but also how much powerful meaning it can convey.

In my opinion, the best improvised music these days is the scruffy, squeaky tabletop tinkering that’s been steadily flowing in different forms out of places all over the United Kingdom: Ashcircle’s screeching “micro-concrète”, EGO DEPLETION’s artificial organics, en creux’s “faulty equipment” transmissions, to name just a few. Both the intrigue and the artistic success of these acts boil down to their do-it-yourself approach and a willingness to embrace the sonic possibilities of complete junk rather than avoiding those imperfections. Clayhanger, an alias of the artist behind the Expanding Foam project, throws their chipped plastic hat in the ring with Coal Press Dax Tongue, a release whose musical contents would probably be just as disturbing to androids or other electronic entities as the album artwork is to carbon-based ones. Despite the Bandcamp tags strongly implying these two nineish-minute tracks were created with a modular synth, Clayhanger frets and fumbles with patch changes in a magnetically slipshod manner that ends up sounding more like a clumsy, sausage-fingered circuit bending session. But the skilled artist still exercises a notable amount of control over their freeform gubbin-flinging without dulling the cut of the music’s rough edges: purposefully placed bits of buzz ‘n crackle converse with each other back and forth across your brain on “Rolling” while rising, shuddering tension coalesces into points of pressure like whirring power tools on “Pressing.” Coal Press Dax Tongue often settles into that paradox of ostensive superfluity or superficiality concealing impressive depth, and that is just one of the many reasons I love it dearly.

I’ve known for a while now that my personal dial for cozy music is completely miscalibrated (and only gets worse with time), but at least now I have hope that plenty of other squirrely needles behind busted glass may occasionally align with mine via the conduit that is this website. If you are the sort who often feels bathed or embraced in dense, enveloping distortion rather than buffeted and assaulted, then swivel yourself toward Flower Caravan’s Village by the River, a loud but ultimately languid display of dense analog abrasion. Along with the other projects whose music has been released by Flower Ark, which seems to document a more organic dimension of Melbourne’s noise scene (which I know absolutely nothing about, so it could be that this particular “dimension” actually comprises the entirety of the community), Flower Caravan pairs a classic pedal chain approach with an aesthetic that ranges from neutral to natural; Village by the River makes a firm first impression with its painted cover of what is presumably the titular location, framing its more incendiary contents with an organic softness. “Arcane Labor” lumbers with that fluid pseudo-stasis pioneered by progenitors of the wall genre like The Rita and Taskmaster, a sound that’s usually pretty hit-or-miss for me personally, but here the slightest currents of dynamic development provide just enough intrigue for the hulking slab to unfold with time-distorting ease before it sputters and chokes into silence. Malformed hints of melodic remnants lurk beneath the forceful squall of “BVLD” and “Bluefin” dips into the thick, sludgy marsh at the banks of the river, imbuing the second half of this digital release with as much perplexingly comforting warmth as the first. Neighbors too loud? AC unit rattling something awful? Cicadas already overstaying their welcome? Drown it all out and just feel the heat.

Haphazardly coalescing from the goopy remnants of beloved (not by me, if I’m being honest, but definitely by plenty of others) San Jose band HeavyHeavyLowLow, the newly formed Bone Cutter ushers in a new era of twisted, darkly humorous, mind-bendingly technical, and even danceable metallic hardcore with their debut self-titled EP. One can immediately see the profound irreverence hasn’t gone anywhere just based on the ridiculous track titles, and “My Wife Is a Dead Cat (Meow)” wastes absolutely no time getting into the thick of things with a tightly executed maelstrom of crushing blast beats, infectious four-on-the-floor groove interludes, and agile vocal trades in less than two minutes. The band has the unique position of being both (former) important progenitors and ardent revivalists of the harsher outskirts of the distinctive sass sound; even though Robert “Robbie” Smith contributes 100% of the vocals according to the credits, his disturbing lyrics are conveyed via a series of disorienting style changes (which should come as no surprise to anyone who’s heard a HHLL track), from guttural growls torn out of a much less sophisticated deathcore playbook to the iconic panicked, whining croons over bouncing dance beats. Even at an almost infuriatingly brisk six-or-so-minutes, Bone Cutter firmly lodges itself in one’s head. Whether it’s memorable lines like “But we’d be feeling lighter / If we didn’t have to carry these bodies” or the catchy gallop of “Peckinpah Leather Crackle” (thanks in large part to the indefatigable rhythm section that is the Fritter brothers) that form the irremovable hooks catching on the seams of our skull, those “in the know” must beware… once you start playing this thing it’s utterly impossible to stop.

There is little to no meaningful distinction between “hunting” and murder. This is something of which any sensible, compassionate person is aware. But without the monstrous institution of camouflage-clad morons strapping masturbatory arsenals to the backs of gigantic five-mpg trucks and taking out their deep-seated insecurities and aggressions on innocent animals, we wouldn’t have game calls. Is it worth it? Absolutely not. But at least now there are amazing releases like Silly Symphonies, Vol. 1 and Hansel’s Pies to soundtrack our consistently disillusioned and demoralizing lives. On the latter, just released digitally by the newly formed Cosmo Sonic Collective, Birmingham-based improviser Taylor Rouss embarks on a series of playful solo explorations on both tenor saxophone and human-made game calls. Each named after a different type of pie (with the exception of “Lament Pie,” one of only two segments that feature recognizable conventional sax playing), the sixteen fleeting tracks are brief but boisterous breath-sketches full of unpredictable squawks, quacks, cackles, hisses, and—occasionally—actual notes. Beyond the appealing novelty of Rouss’s approach and the addictive whimsy with which he executes it, the textural presence of the calls themselves is what actually makes Hansel’s Pies so enjoyable for me; there’s a simultaneous volatility and complete inconsequence in their minuscule tweets and titters, a tearing, exhilarating harshness tempered by almost cutesy exiguity. Based on Rouss’s own description of his modus operandi, he’d be equally pleased by listeners either laughing hysterically at his music’s ostensible triviality or hushed in awed silence. But if you ask me, a little bit of both is the way to go.

It’s impossible not to fall in love with the music of Italian reeds maestro Virginia Genta once one listens to The Live in Lisbon, a perfectly lo-fi recording of a 2008 performance with drummer Chris Corsano that’s nothing short of magical. It’s one of very few releases under Genta’s own name (her eponymous discography comprises a small handful of ensemble live LPs and a smattering of solo 7″s), but she certainly stays busy with other projects, which include the many iterations of the Jooklo collective, YADER, and Melting Mind. The latter, an ongoing, loosely structured collaboration with an array of electronics tinkerers, namely Michele Mazzani, is among the most abstract material from Genta in which she still utilizes her trusty supply of winds. The group’s latest offering, the partly self-titled Melted Mind, is an enthralling, difficult chunk of dusty atmospherics that keeps the listener at an arm-and-a-half’s length. All of the tracks besides “Frenzy Partner” were conjured by the core duo of Genta and Mazzani, the former switching between tenor and soprano sax and the latter contributing real-time synthesis as well as post-production processing. Anyone who listens to even a few seconds of the tape would hardly be surprised to learn that the Genta/Mazzani pieces were recorded in a barn; it’s not just the swathing analog hiss or appealing scruffiness of the recording itself that evokes a sense of confined removal or isolation, but also the music itself, which more often tends toward patient, brooding drones and atonal squawks and squeals rather than conventional jazz improvisation (with the exception of “SITB Pt. II,” a well-placed smattering of gestural scalar runs). With the lengthy “Bellatrix” Mazzani gradually begins to assert his presence, and the murky, garbled ephemera that begins “Through the Rusty Gates” and the B side—presumably created via on-site synth sludging, after-the-fact assemblage, or some combination of both—sounds like something right out of a Michael Barthel tape. Even with the added complexity of three additional musicians and a new recording location on “Frenzy Partner,” Melted Mind never abandons its refreshing, sublime removal; it’s a deep, buried hibernation both comforting and cloying.