Bowing. Rubbing. Scraping. Squealing. Squeaking. Screeching. Moaning. Silence. Anything else. Nothing else. Sound fixations waiting to unfix in the act of observation/measurement. Go ahead, measure them. Then flip to side B and watch your numbers float away in a muddy stream of ink. All sounds were made without electricity. It's portable music. You can easily move from now to the time when there was no emotion, just its precursors of permanently lingering urgency.
Paul Neidhardt, Catherine Pancake, Dan Breen, and Andy Hayleck caress their idiophones until they're lost in backporch lullabies of terror. Audrey Chen's voice also gets lost, swallowed by its mechanical half-kin and trapped into the shadow world of forbidden overtones. In the center we find a steaming hunk of dry ice, hosting the sounds of molecular frenzy at the interface of hot and cold. Metal. Wood. H2O. Larynx. Danger. Safety. They say it's built into the limbic system.