There is something reassuringly undignified about the collision between spiritual aspiration and domestic inconvenience. One may be contemplating the fragility of existence, the collapse of religious conviction or the passage of time, only to discover that the radiator has started making a noise or that moth larvae are quietly converting an expensive carpet into a communal dining arrangement. Nicolas Debade understands that these experiences are not necessarily as far apart as they appear. "Fragments of Soaring Vessels" sets abstract questions alongside the unruly evidence of everyday life, creating five compositions in which transcendence, anxiety, mechanical behaviour and accidental discovery repeatedly interfere with one another. Its title suggests objects that ought to be airborne, yet the music remains attentive to the materials from which they are made, and to the possibility that even the most ambitious construction might come apart in mid-flight.

Debade is well equipped to negotiate the territory between conceptual thinking and unruly sound. A composer, sound artist and researcher with a background in classical piano, he is a member of INA GRM, the French institution whose history is closely connected with the development of musique concrète and electroacoustic composition. His own practice ranges across electronic music, noise, field recording and acoustic sources, with an interest in the ways technology can alter our perception of familiar materials. That research background is relevant, but "Fragments of Soaring Vessels" never feels like a dissertation that has accidentally acquired a soundtrack. Its ideas are embedded in the behaviour of the sounds themselves. Debade works with recordings from the Calanques of Marseille, water heaters and radiators, cutlery and shards of glass, alongside synthesizers, guitar, bass, piano, theremin, voice and hackbrett. This is not an invitation to identify every item in an audio version of a particularly eccentric household inventory. The sources are transformed until their original identities become unstable, then allowed to retain just enough of their character to keep the music grounded.

"The Inexpressible Feeling of Dereliction" begins with a psychological crisis rather than a physical one: the moment when a deeply religious person experiences a devastating loss of faith and must reconsider the devotion that previously gave life its meaning. Debade approaches the subject without resorting to the obvious musical shorthand of solemn chords, ominous drones or an electronic equivalent of stained glass falling from the ceiling. Instead, sounds emerge and recede with an uneasy sense of discontinuity. Electronic textures and fragments of acoustic material occupy a space in which apparent stability can no longer be trusted. The composition does not attempt to explain what disillusionment feels like, as though an emotional state could be translated into a universally recognised collection of frequencies. It presents a more elusive condition: the mind continuing to search for an order that has ceased to persuade it. The title may be grand, but the musical argument is persuasive precisely because it does not insist on a grand conclusion.

"Interlope" changes the mood considerably. Here, the synthesizers seem to have developed separate personalities, some shrieking, others singing, all apparently convinced that their own contribution deserves immediate attention. The resulting exchanges are capricious and faintly comic, suggesting a gathering of machines, insects and animals whose shared language consists largely of interruption. Debade’s sound design gives the electronic material a peculiar physicality: tones twitch, squeal, chatter and mutate, avoiding the polished impersonality sometimes associated with synthesizer music. The piece has an almost theatrical quality, but without assigning its performers stable roles. A sound that initially seems mechanical may acquire an organic inflection; something apparently alive may suddenly reveal an unnervingly artificial edge. The distinction between creature and device becomes less useful than the question of how each sound reacts to the others. Anyone who has ever tried to hold a sensible conversation in a room full of people determined to be interesting will recognise the underlying social problem.

Then "Antic Moth" brings the argument down to carpet level. Its premise is almost comically precise: a desire to create something contemplative and spiritual is undermined by an infestation of moth larvae, whose repeated attacks eventually defeat the attempt to preserve a beautiful Persian rug. Yet the episode offers more than a good anecdote about the limitations of interior design. It captures the way anxiety can colonise the very activity intended to relieve it. The search for serenity becomes inseparable from the effort to control the conditions that threaten it, and every attempt to restore calm produces another reason to remain alert. Debade gives this conflict an unstable musical form, moving between more delicate material and harsher, more intrusive gestures. The effect is not simply that peaceful music gets interrupted by noise. Rather, the possibility of peace itself becomes suspect, because attention has been captured by the thing that refuses to go away. The moths, unlike most philosophical problems, have the considerable advantage of being hungry and entirely indifferent to the quality of one's intentions.

At nineteen minutes, "Melamboreas" is the album’s centre of gravity. The title refers to the ancient Greek term for the Mistral, the powerful wind that blows through southern France, and the composition was developed in a multiphonic version for the GRM Acousmonium at Maison de la Radio in May 2024. Its concerns extend beyond the weather: departure, erosion, renewal and the shifting relationship between remembered and forgotten experience all inform its gradual development. Debade describes the piece as a form of organised chaos, and the phrase is apt, provided that organisation is understood as a process rather than a tidy arrangement. Raw recordings, electronic sounds and digital transformations accumulate, disintegrate and reconfigure themselves. Some passages seem almost immobile, as if their constituent elements have become trapped in a substance too dense to move freely; elsewhere, the music develops a slow, inexorable momentum. The contrast between these conditions creates a compelling uncertainty about whether anything is actually changing or whether we are simply discovering new details in something that has been there all along.

The length of "Melamboreas" gives these changes room to register without turning the composition into a demonstration of endurance. Debade is patient, but not merely atmospheric. His material has grain, resistance and a sense of internal pressure; quieter stretches do not necessarily offer relief, while denser passages do not automatically signify crisis. The music keeps revising the listener’s sense of scale. A small sound may seem to contain an enormous amount of space, while a thick electronic texture can feel curiously static. The Mistral is an appropriate reference because wind is both a physical event and a force that makes other things perceptible through their reaction to it. Here, the movement of sound exposes the unstable relationship between an object, its surroundings and the memory of what it once was. There is no need to turn that into a grand metaphor for human existence. The composition is sufficiently absorbing without being appointed spokesperson for the universe.

The bonus track, "Ulysses’ Last Journey", occupies a more intimate position. Composed and recorded in the immediate aftermath of the departure of a faithful companion, it carries a personal weight that differs from the conceptual premises of the preceding pieces. The title evokes the end of an odyssey, but the music does not require a narrative to explain its emotional significance. Its comparatively brief duration and subdued character allow it to function as a quiet dedication, with grief acknowledged rather than elaborated into a prescribed sequence of musical gestures. Its place at the end of the album also changes how the earlier material can be heard. The questions of rupture, erosion and persistence acquire a more personal resonance, though the connection remains suggestive rather than explicit. Debade does not attempt to make loss aesthetically convenient. He leaves it its own measure.

Across the album, the apparent differences between the tracks conceal a consistent concern with the failure of neat divisions: spiritual experience and material nuisance, living organism and electronic device, preserved memory and damaged object, deliberate composition and unintended discovery. Debade’s sources may be disparate, but the music is not a random assemblage of interesting noises. The compositions have direction, and their contrasts are carefully managed without being made too comfortable. The production allows fine details to remain audible while giving the denser passages enough weight to avoid sounding like a collection of digital curiosities. There is humour in the work, particularly when its sounds acquire the awkward mannerisms of troublesome creatures, but that humour does not cancel the more serious questions. It makes them more recognisable.

"Fragments of Soaring Vessels" occasionally risks asking its listener to do a little too much interpretative work, particularly when the conceptual descriptions are more explicit than the music’s own signposts. But this ambiguity is also part of its character. The pieces do not behave like illustrations of a set of ideas; they develop their own relationships, sometimes reinforcing the stated intentions, sometimes complicating them. Debade’s achievement lies in making that uncertainty feel productive rather than evasive. These compositions acknowledge that the mind can seek serenity while remaining preoccupied with moths, that a crisis of faith may leave behind more questions than answers, and that a sound can be both a physical event and a trigger for something remembered imperfectly. The vessels in this collection may be fragmented, but their pieces retain enough lift to suggest movement without promising escape. Even the most carefully assembled construction must negotiate the world as it actually is, which is full of broken glass, noisy plumbing and other deeply unimpressed participants.

A triacontagon is a polygon with thirty sides, which sounds like the sort of fact someone might bring up at a party when the conversation has become dangerously enjoyable. But the title of this collaboration between Brazilian saxophonist Ivo Perelman, American experimental guitarist Elliott Sharp and Brazilian percussionist Cyro Baptista makes more sense as a description of how its music behaves than as a geometry lesson. Thirty sides imply neither symmetry in any immediately useful sense nor a particularly convenient way of getting from one point to another. They suggest a shape with too many possible approaches to be grasped at a glance. Across six lengthy improvisations, these three musicians construct something similarly difficult to reduce to a single perspective, though there is nothing random about the results. The music has its own internal logic, even when that logic seems to have been drafted by a committee whose members refuse to attend the same meeting.

Perelman has spent decades developing a tenor-saxophone language that can move from searching lyricism to an almost physical confrontation with the instrument. His early musical education included classical guitar, but the saxophone eventually became his principal means of expression, leading to a formidable catalogue of recordings and collaborations with figures such as Matthew Shipp and William Parker. Sharp comes from another corner of the experimental universe, with a practice encompassing guitar, electronics, composition, mathematical systems and the unruly history of New York’s downtown scene. Baptista, meanwhile, brings a percussion vocabulary informed by Brazilian traditions but never confined to them. His work can be rhythmic, theatrical, mischievous or unexpectedly delicate, sometimes within the space of a few seconds. The three are not merely specialists brought together to demonstrate their respective expertise. They are musicians with strong personal identities, and the interest lies in what happens when none is granted permanent control.

The first surprise is that Perelman does not automatically get first word. "Dionysus in the Amazon" begins with Sharp and Baptista establishing a restless exchange of guitar figures and percussion, a rhythmic presence that feels more like an invitation to move than a conventional beat. When the saxophone enters, it does not simply rise above the other instruments and claim the foreground. Perelman bends, stretches and roughens his phrases in response to the activity already underway. The sound can be exuberant without becoming celebratory, as though Dionysus had arrived at the party only to discover that the furniture had been assembled incorrectly and the guests were enjoying themselves anyway. Baptista’s contributions are especially important here: his percussion gives the music momentum while remaining too unpredictable to function as a dependable rhythmic floor.

That balance becomes more elusive in "Sacred Geometry of the Tropics". Sharp’s guitar can sound brittle, granular or strangely luminous, with tones that appear to have been drawn out of the instrument by methods its manufacturer would prefer not to discuss. Baptista responds with an assortment of timbres rather than a fixed pattern, while Perelman moves between piercing cries and phrases that seem to circle an idea without settling on a final statement. The tropical imagery in the title might encourage expectations of exotic colour or an imagined wilderness, but the music does not offer an easy postcard version of either. Its atmosphere emerges from the interaction of the players: a humid density one moment, a sudden opening the next, then another layer of activity that changes the apparent scale of everything around it. The geometry is less about orderly design than about the way separate lines keep altering one another’s direction.

"Inside a Broken Circle" makes that instability more explicit. A circle should, in theory, be reassuring: continuous, closed, uncomplicated by corners. Break it, however, and its parts begin to imply different destinations. The trio explores that possibility through shifts in density and emphasis, allowing individual sounds to acquire prominence before being absorbed into the ensemble again. Sharp’s guitar can supply a recognisable pulse, only for its texture to make that pulse feel uncertain; Baptista can suggest a rhythm without obliging it to behave; Perelman’s saxophone responds with a mixture of breath, pressure and melodic fragments. There is a strong sense of mutual listening, but not the polite kind in which everyone waits for their turn to speak. These musicians listen in order to interfere productively.

Then comes "Electric Bacchanalia", the one piece that begins with Perelman’s saxophone. Its title promises excess, and the performance has a more immediate physical charge, with the saxophone pushing forward while Sharp and Baptista create a lively, sometimes abrasive framework around it. Yet the track is not simply a release of pent-up energy. Even at its most animated, the music retains a flexibility that prevents it from becoming a prolonged contest in who can play loudest or fastest. Baptista’s sense of theatrical timing and Sharp’s ability to make the guitar function as both a rhythmic instrument and a source of unstable texture keep the proceedings mobile. It is the closest the album comes to an unruly celebration, though anyone hoping for a tidy chorus to take home will have to settle for the memory of a good argument.

The two closing pieces offer different kinds of resistance. "Irregular Forms in Humid Space" is particularly effective when the musicians allow small sounds to remain exposed before introducing something that unsettles their apparent significance. Baptista’s vocalisations and unusual percussive gestures can lend the music a distinctly playful character, while Sharp’s guitar and Perelman’s saxophone make the atmosphere more ambiguous. There is humour here, but it is not the humour of a novelty act. It comes from the musicians’ willingness to make sounds that might be conventionally labelled inappropriate and then demonstrate that they belong exactly where they are. "Disordered Continuum", shorter than its predecessors, closes the album without pretending to resolve the questions raised by the preceding hour. Its jagged exchanges and shifting momentum feel less like a conclusion than the point at which the recording decides it has made its case and declines to provide further documentation.

The album’s freedom is not the absence of structure. It is a structure that develops through attention, reaction and the capacity to abandon an idea before it becomes an obligation. That distinction matters, because free improvisation can sometimes mistake the removal of rules for the removal of responsibility. Here, each player has to do more than produce an identifiable sound: each must recognise what the others are doing and decide whether to reinforce it, oppose it or change the conditions altogether. Sharp’s textural ingenuity, Baptista’s rhythmic imagination and Perelman’s expressive range create a group dynamic in which no contribution remains entirely private. Even the more abrasive moments carry traces of exchange rather than mere collision.

There are passages where the density and extended duration may test listeners who prefer improvisation to provide a clearer sense of arrival. The six pieces occupy more than an hour, and their titles sometimes promise a conceptual precision that the music deliberately refuses to deliver. But that mismatch is part of the record’s appeal. "Triacontagon" gives us neither a mathematical proof nor a ceremonial performance with a clearly defined beginning, middle and end. Instead, it captures three musicians working out a temporary set of relationships, with all the mischief, concentration and occasional confusion that entails. Thirty sides may be an awkward shape to draw, but these three players make a persuasive case for listening from more than one direction. The final result is adventurous without being self-important, physically engaging without leaning on brute force, and funny in the way serious creative people can be funny when they stop trying to look serious. It leaves the pleasing suspicion that the music has discovered several more possibilities than it has actually had time to explore.

There are people who spend their lives trying to fit into the world, and people who make such a spectacularly poor job of fitting in that the world eventually has to invent a category for them. Sölvi Helgason belonged firmly to the latter group. Nineteenth-century Icelandic wanderer, self-taught artist, inveterate writer and philosopher, he travelled despite laws designed to keep the poor tied to particular places, endured punishment for his independence, and filled paper with intricate drawings and grand reflections. He also adopted an assortment of illustrious names, as if the standard issue identity supplied by society were an especially uninspiring offer. Mógil’s "Norðlandínus" takes this restless, contradictory figure as its point of departure, drawing music and lyrics from his life and writings without reducing him to either a romanticised eccentric or a historical curiosity. The result is an album concerned with the price of independence, the indignities of poverty and the stubborn conviction that a person might still claim the right to think freely.

Mógil’s five musicians have the unusual advantage of being able to suggest several musical traditions without becoming comfortably settled in any of them. Heiða Árnadóttir’s voice occupies the centre, while Hilmar Jensson’s guitar, Joachim Badenhorst’s clarinets and keyboards, Kristín Thóra Haraldsdóttir’s viola and Eiríkur Orri Ólafsson’s trumpet create an ensemble sound in which chamber-music precision can coexist with folk-like directness, jazz inflection and the gradual accumulation of post-rock. Nothing here needs to announce itself as a genre experiment. The instruments simply seem to have arrived from different neighbourhoods and discovered that, despite their disagreements, they have something important to discuss. The arrangements make room for silence and small changes in emphasis, allowing a phrase to acquire weight without being forced into a dramatic climax. There is a delicacy to the music, but it is not the delicacy of something fragile and protected. It is closer to the resourcefulness of someone who has learned to work with whatever materials are available.

The opening "Hugleiðingar" establishes a contemplative atmosphere, its reflections on thought and consciousness setting up one of the album’s central tensions: the mind may be free to wander even when the body is not. "Allsstaðar er flóttamaðurinn einmanna" brings loneliness into sharper focus, while "Ingiríður" introduces the name of Helgason’s mother into a personal mythology in which ordinary biography and self-invention are difficult to separate. The titles of the short pieces that follow, invoking figures and aliases such as Hegel, Schiller and Sólon Íslandus, can initially resemble a hurried roll call at an eccentric philosophy department. Yet their brevity matters. Rather than expanding every reference into a fully developed song, Mógil let these miniature sections interrupt the album’s larger movements, like fragments of a mind continually moving between the immediate business of survival and the grander business of understanding the universe. The sequence is playful without making Helgason’s ambition a joke.

The longer songs carry the greatest emotional force. In "Ég er guðleg vera", the assertion of divine stature, universal knowledge and humility makes for an intriguing combination: the speaker claims almost everything while insisting on modesty. It could be read as grandiosity, comic self-fashioning or a declaration of dignity from someone whom society has denied much else. Mógil leave those possibilities productively entangled. The vocal delivery does not need to wink at the listener, and the music avoids turning the text into theatrical caricature. Instead, the claim hangs in the air with its mixture of vulnerability and audacity intact.

"Flækingur framan úr sveit" is more explicitly painful. Its account of leaving home, enduring hardship, growing weary of blows and seeking somewhere better to live gives the album a human scale that the philosophical names cannot supply on their own. The desire to learn, read, paint and write freely is not presented as an abstract ideal. It emerges from exhaustion, from the wish to escape a life that has become intolerable to both body and spirit. Here the ensemble’s restraint is especially effective: the music does not need to inflate the suffering into a grand spectacle. The repeated words carry their own insistence, while the arrangement leaves enough space for the longing behind them to register. Freedom, in this context, is not a lofty ornament. It is the possibility of getting through the day without being beaten down.

The album’s most inviting counterweight arrives with "Blóm eilífðarinnar". Its images of love carried over mountains and heaths, of shelter beneath the sky and a shared home without fixed borders, suggest a freedom defined less by conquest than by companionship. The open landscape is not merely picturesque scenery; it becomes an alternative to the social arrangements that have denied the wanderer a secure place. But even here, cold eventually takes command. The promise of an eternal refuge remains vulnerable to physical reality, and the song’s tenderness is sharpened by that knowledge. In a record so attentive to exclusion, the idea of belonging becomes moving precisely because it cannot be taken for granted.

The later sequence is less comforting. "Ranglæti" turns towards injustice and the destruction inflicted by those who crush what is wise and good, while "Und sólu grætur" describes a life abandoned to exile, hunger and misery. The bluntness of these texts prevents the album from drifting into an agreeable mist of historical melancholy. Helgason’s outsider status may invite a fashionable celebration of the misunderstood genius, but his words insist on the material conditions behind the legend. He was not simply a free spirit enjoying the scenery. He was a person living under laws and social expectations that made movement, shelter and self-determination difficult to secure. The record’s quieter musical language gives these accusations room to resonate rather than smoothing them into an aesthetic mood.

That is where Mógil’s combination of traditions proves particularly apt. The trumpet and clarinet can lend a phrase a slightly skewed formality; the viola brings a tensile, almost vocal quality of its own; the guitar can suggest both a folk-derived simplicity and a more unsettled modern texture. Árnadóttir’s voice connects these colours without making the songs sound like exercises in stylistic fusion. The group’s arrangements are composed enough to feel deliberate, but they retain a sense of permeability, as though ideas can enter from the margins and change the direction of the music. The effect suits a figure whose drawings, writings and invented identities refused to remain within neat divisions between art, philosophy and autobiography.

The closing "Lífið er ferðalag" offers a final reflection on life as a journey and on the possibility that those who have travelled far may help guide those just setting out. After the preceding accounts of hardship, the sentiment could easily become a greeting-card platitude. It avoids that fate because the album has already shown what the journey costs, and because Helgason’s authority comes not from having achieved a settled wisdom but from having persisted in the search. Mógil do not claim that suffering automatically makes anyone enlightened. They suggest something subtler: experience can become useful when it is passed on, and even a life dismissed by its contemporaries can leave behind ideas worth carrying forward.

"Norðlandínus" is therefore neither a musical biography in the conventional sense nor a collection of songs dressed in historical costume. It is a thoughtful encounter between a contemporary ensemble and a singular, unruly imagination. At times the succession of brief pieces can feel more fragmentary than cumulative, and listeners expecting a strong melodic hook or a clearly signposted dramatic arc may find the album deliberately elusive. But its shape reflects the nature of its subject: a life assembled from movement, writing, argument, invention and the refusal to accept the place assigned to it. Mógil give that life a musical form that is lyrical without becoming sentimental, intellectually curious without turning into a lecture, and occasionally wry without losing sight of its cruelties. Helgason may have had trouble finding a place in the world, but his ideas have found five capable musicians willing to make room for them.

Love is an awkward subject for music. It inspires some of our most beautiful compositions and some of our least defensible lyrics, often within the same three minutes. Thomas Meadowcroft takes this embarrassing abundance of romantic expression and submits it to a rather elegant experiment: what happens when a statement about desire by Jacques Lacan is made into a song, then placed in conversation with other songs that share its harmonic foundations? The answer, on "love Songs Without Subjects", is a 42-minute composition for voice, chamber ensemble, electronics and fragments of popular music, in which familiarity becomes a slippery business. There is tenderness here, but very little reassurance. Love may be universal, as the greeting-card industry would have us believe, yet the ways we express it are remarkably repetitive. Meadowcroft makes that repetition the subject of his music, and finds something quietly strange hiding inside it.

The work begins with Lacan’s notorious formulation of love as an act of giving something one does not possess to someone who may not want it. It is the sort of proposition that can ruin a dinner party, particularly if delivered by someone who has recently discovered psychoanalysis and is determined to make it everybody else’s problem. Meadowcroft avoids turning it into a philosophical lecture. Instead, the text is carried by the voice of Ditte Marie Braein over a four-measure harmonic pattern built around the descending chromatic bass line traditionally associated with laments. The progression circles through a familiar emotional territory, moving downwards without offering the satisfaction of a final destination. The effect resembles a musical staircase whose steps keep descending while the floor stubbornly refuses to arrive. Love, in this arrangement, is less a destination than a peculiar form of perpetual motion.

Braein’s voice is central to the composition’s ability to remain intimate without becoming sentimental. She delivers the text with delicacy, allowing its contradictions to register without insisting on a single emotional interpretation. Around her, asamisimasa assemble a finely balanced combination of bass clarinet, cello, electric guitar, vibraphone, Fender Rhodes, piano and percussion, while Meadowcroft adds Roland Juno 106 synthesisers and tape delay. The ensemble’s sound is neither conventionally orchestral nor merely an ambient backdrop. The instruments retain their individual contours, but their roles become fluid as the music slowly changes colour. A keyboard figure may suggest a familiar ballad; a low woodwind tone unsettles its sweetness; the electronics introduce a slight blur around the edges, as if the music were being remembered rather than performed in the present. Nothing needs to explode. The unease develops through the patient adjustment of details.

The compositional device that gives the piece its particular intelligence is the way its harmonic progression begins to overlap with other works built around the same descending lament. Henry Purcell’s "Dido’s Lament" appears alongside Prince’s "The Most Beautiful Girl in the World", while the Beatles’ "Michelle" brushes against "My Funny Valentine". These references are not presented as complete quotations or nostalgic cameos. They surface in fragments, entangled with the incidental debris of analogue tape recordings: outtakes, small imperfections and traces of the recording process. Their familiarity is both an invitation and a distraction. The listener recognises something, tries to locate it, and finds that the object of recognition has already shifted. The songs are present without being fully available, like memories that retain their emotional charge while losing the precise circumstances in which they were acquired.

This is where the title’s notion of subjects becomes particularly suggestive. A love song ordinarily appears to have a clear centre: someone sings, someone is loved, and someone else is invited to imagine themselves in the same situation. Here, those positions become unstable. The words belong to Lacan, the harmonic pattern to a long history of musical convention, and the fleeting melodic references to a cultural archive shared by listeners who may have very different relationships with them. No single romantic narrative can comfortably claim the whole piece. What remains is the act of wanting itself, along with the familiar forms through which wanting has learned to express itself. The song becomes an object of desire, but an incomplete one. We hear enough to recognise it, never enough to possess it.

Meadowcroft has long worked across contemporary classical composition, electronics, theatre and radio, often placing recognisable cultural forms in contexts that subtly alter their meaning. That sensibility is well suited to this piece, which neither rejects popular music nor treats it as an inferior language awaiting intellectual rehabilitation. The lament progression is effective precisely because it has been used so widely. Its emotional power is inseparable from repetition, from the way generations of composers and songwriters have found that a descending bass line can make sorrow sound inevitable and desire sound noble. Meadowcroft does not expose this convention as a fraud. He reveals its flexibility, and perhaps its limitations. A familiar progression can make almost anything feel momentous, including a feeling whose object remains unclear. Music has spent centuries refining the art of making emotional uncertainty sound convincing.

The single-track format reinforces the experience. There are no separate songs to provide convenient resting points, no tidy sequence of contrasting moods to suggest that the problem of love can be solved through good programming. Instead, the material unfolds gradually, with its recurring harmonic motion producing a sense of suspension. The music advances, but the progression keeps pulling it back into familiar territory. This can be hypnotic, though the piece is not simply an exercise in slow beauty. Its pleasure comes from noticing the small changes within the repetition, especially when a half-remembered popular melody begins to emerge from the ensemble’s carefully maintained ambiguity. The occasional recognition brings a private thrill, followed by the slightly ridiculous sensation of having been emotionally ambushed by a few notes. Apparently, even the most sophisticated listener remains vulnerable to the musical equivalent of an old text message.

The production contributes to this uncertainty without obscuring the performers. Recorded at the Norwegian Academy of Music in June 2025 and produced by Meadowcroft and percussionist Håkon Mørch Stene, the piece preserves a sense of acoustic space while allowing the tape elements to interrupt its otherwise measured surface. The fragments feel neither like decorative samples nor like a conventional collage. They are part of the composition’s thinking, reminders that music is never entirely separate from the sounds and associations that listeners bring to it. The past enters not as a grand historical statement but as a tune that refuses to remain where it was placed. The result is a subtle negotiation between the composed and the contingent, between a carefully structured score and the cultural clutter that inevitably gathers around a familiar melody.

There is a risk that a work built around Lacan might become so enamoured of its conceptual framework that the music serves merely as an illustration. "love Songs Without Subjects" largely avoids that trap because its central idea is audible rather than simply explained. The descending bass line, the recurring melodic fragments and the gradual displacement of familiar songs allow the listener to experience the argument without needing to agree with Lacan, or even to find him particularly pleasant company. The piece does not claim to solve the paradox of love. It considers what happens when a culture repeatedly gives musical form to an experience that resists clear definition, and how those forms can remain compelling even when their original emotional circumstances are absent.

Ultimately, this is a love song that declines to identify its beloved, and a piece of contemporary composition that understands the value of leaving certain questions unanswered. Its beauty is restrained, its humour dry, and its emotional effects more persistent than dramatic. The familiar tunes never quite become possessions; they remain glimpses, fragments of something that seems close enough to touch but keeps changing shape. Perhaps that is why the music works. Love is rarely short of explanations, declarations or elaborate theories. What it lacks is a reliable method of making desire behave sensibly. Meadowcroft offers no such method. He gives the problem a melody, lets it descend for 42 minutes, and leaves us to decide whether we have heard a confession, a critique or simply another remarkably durable way of being confused.

Every system of belief needs a soundtrack. It helps turn an idea into a feeling, a feeling into a habit, and a habit into something that can pass for truth without having to endure too much questioning. A melody is particularly useful for this purpose: it slips past the defences that might greet a lecture with suspicion, then stays around long enough to become part of the furniture of memory. Perverts in White Shirts, the Zürich duo of Nathalie Dreier and Dave Phillips, take this deceptively simple mechanism apart on "CULTurally appropriated songs and revisited memories", a sprawling two-CD collection of repurposed songs, sermons, declarations and devotional fragments. The source material comes partly from the Children of God cult in which Dreier spent her childhood, and partly from other movements whose promises of enlightenment, salvation or belonging have carried less innocent implications. The pair subject these remnants to an unruly mixture of electronic distortion, fractured pop, psychedelic haze, dub-like manipulation and outright sonic sabotage. The music can be catchy, even inviting, but the invitation comes with a distinctly troubling small print.

The album’s 28 tracks frequently begin with something recognisable: a melodic contour, a voice delivering its message with conviction, the suggestion of a chorus that might once have brought a roomful of people together. Then the familiar begins to misbehave. Voices are stretched, submerged, interrupted or made to sound strangely mechanical; fragments of devotional enthusiasm acquire an uncomfortable theatricality; arrangements drift between wonky pop, warped psychedelia and noise without settling into a single stylistic jurisdiction. “What A Wonderful World We Live In” opens with a title whose sunny assurance becomes difficult to accept in this company. “Love Is The Only Weapon” and “Truth” place two reassuring abstractions under suspicion before the record has had much time to establish itself. The title “My Truth Is Better Than Yours” could almost be the slogan of an entire civilisation currently arguing with itself online, although the album’s concerns reach well beyond the internet. These are not merely clever names attached to ironic sound collages. They expose the verbal shortcuts through which certainty can be sold, particularly when the person doing the selling claims to possess exclusive access to the answers.

The unsettling thing is how often the music retains its appeal. Dreier and Phillips understand that the most effective forms of manipulation do not necessarily sound sinister. A sugary tune can carry an ugly proposition; an intimate voice can make domination resemble protection; a collective chorus can transform unquestioning agreement into an apparently joyful occasion. The duo exploit this mismatch rather than simply drowning their source material in noise. Their arrangements can be playful and grotesque at once, with crooked rhythms and oddly seductive melodic remnants keeping the listener involved even as the underlying material becomes harder to stomach. “Come To Mommy” has the ominous implications of a lullaby whose promise of safety deserves closer inspection, while “A Wonderful Bright Rhythm Will Meet Your Needs” sounds like a particularly dubious form of customer service. One almost expects the music to offer a free introductory consultation before explaining that cancellation is not permitted.

Yet mockery alone would be an inadequate response to the material, and the album is more interesting when its humour becomes uneasy. Dreier’s biographical connection to the Children of God means that this is not an abstract exercise in collecting examples of other people’s foolishness. The work involves reclaiming material that may carry the weight of an imposed childhood, while acknowledging that memory does not necessarily obey the neat moral divisions preferred by hindsight. Something once associated with isolation or indoctrination may still retain a melody, a vocal inflection or an emotional residue that cannot simply be dismissed. That residue is precisely where the album operates. The music neither restores the original material to innocence nor allows it to remain untouched by its history. Instead, it puts the listener in the uncomfortable position of recognising the attraction of something whose implications are repellent. There is no need to pretend that every fragment is equally sinister, or that everyone who finds a tune memorable has somehow been compromised by it. The point is that musical pleasure can survive the circumstances in which it was manufactured, sometimes long after the original message has become impossible to defend.

Dave Phillips is well suited to this collision of subject matter and sound. His extensive work in noise and experimental music has explored the physical and psychological effects of abrasive audio, while Perverts in White Shirts gives that sensibility a particularly charged relationship with song and language. Here, distortion is not just a way of making things sound unpleasant. It interferes with the authority of the voice, loosens the connection between a statement and its intended meaning, and makes the act of listening feel less passive. The duo can be caustic without becoming musically monotonous, moving from recognisable song forms to fragmented interludes and passages in which the original material seems to dissolve into its own emotional atmosphere. “Never Forever” and “Trust” offer different kinds of ambiguity, while “I Judge Your Guilts One By One” announces its prosecutorial instincts with an eight-minute duration that gives the accusation room to become something more complicated than a punchline. At other moments, the music sounds like a broadcast from a parallel entertainment industry in which the jingles have survived but the institution responsible for them has become increasingly difficult to trust.

The album’s length is part of its argument, although it is also its most obvious practical challenge. Nearly two hours of material can make even a well-intentioned listener wonder whether the subject might have been adequately established somewhere around the first disc. The shorter tracks help by creating a restless succession of perspectives rather than one continuous wall of unease, but the quantity of material occasionally threatens to blur the distinctions between individual pieces. This is not a work whose every idea needs equal time to make its point. Still, the accumulation has a purpose: the repetitions, changes in tone and recurring vocabulary of love, truth, freedom and salvation begin to resemble the relentless circulation of slogans themselves. One statement may seem absurd in isolation; repeated in different forms, it starts to reveal the machinery that keeps such statements alive. The listener is not simply hearing a collection of strange songs, but experiencing how a set of persuasive gestures can become exhausting through sheer persistence.

Then comes “Shangri-La”, almost 29 minutes long, occupying a disproportionate stretch of the album’s closing movement. Its duration changes the terms of engagement. What might elsewhere be delivered as a concise, unsettling vignette becomes an extended confrontation with the remnants of belief, as vocal fragments and electronic treatments linger beyond the point at which a conventional song would have offered a chorus, a resolution and a polite farewell. The title invokes an imagined sanctuary, a place supposedly removed from ordinary conflict, while the music makes the prospect of such refuge increasingly uncertain. It is an effective ending precisely because it refuses the convenience of a final verdict. After so many compact examples of persuasion and distortion, the extended piece leaves space for the material to become emotionally ambiguous rather than merely illustrative. The listener is allowed to remain uncomfortable, which is not the same thing as being left without a point.

The album’s wider implications are difficult to ignore. Cultic thinking is not confined to isolated religious communities or flamboyant gurus with questionable hair and a talent for filling halls. It can flourish wherever belonging depends on obedience, where doubt is treated as a personal defect, and where an authority figure promises to remove the burden of independent judgement. Contemporary wellness culture, political tribes, online communities and the commercial manufacture of identity all offer their own versions of the bargain, though the differences between them matter and should not be casually erased. Perverts in White Shirts do not need to claim that every form of conviction is equivalent to coercion. Their more unsettling observation is that the mechanisms of persuasion can travel between contexts, retaining their effectiveness even when the vocabulary changes. The promise of unconditional love, the assertion of exclusive truth and the demand for loyalty are not inherently sinister phrases. Their meaning depends on who controls them, what they require in return, and whether the person hearing them is free to walk away.

"CULTurally appropriated songs and revisited memories" is therefore more than a collection of deliberately mangled devotional pop. It is a difficult, darkly funny examination of how ideology attaches itself to the senses, and how the emotional traces of a past can persist beyond the beliefs that once organised them. Dreier and Phillips make no attempt to turn this material into an easy story of escape and recovery, nor do they offer the listener a convenient position of moral superiority. Their music can be absurd, alluring, abrasive and genuinely painful, sometimes within the same piece. The title’s emphasis on revisiting memories is important: what returns is not necessarily what happened in its original form, but what can still be heard, felt and questioned in the present. By the end, the most disturbing discovery is not that a sinister message can be wrapped in a pleasant tune. It is that the tune may remain pleasant even after we understand the message. The difficult work begins when we stop confusing that pleasure with proof.