Bleep

Minor Science’s Absent Friends series has eluded regular format, switching from a collage-esque DJ mix to an “infinitely looping minisite”. Now landing on Albert Salinas and Philip Sherburne's Balmat, the series’ third reincarnation takes the form of Angus Finlayson’s second album, where he recreates live material into jittery, mercurial soundscapes. Vol. III seems to take cues more from the likes of Alva Noto and Ryuichi Sakamoto than the club frenzy of his prior efforts, with an explorative beatless direction previously hinted at on quieter moments in between the ruckus of his debut Second Language. Yet the rancour of rave displayed in the year’s earlier 064 EP still remains, teased in the active buzz of synths and sonic objects racing against each other till they crash.

We enter the album as though frozen in time, with cymbal-like brassy tones on ‘Introduction’ elongated into shimmering clockwork molasses. ‘Dread the Evening’ resonates similarly: decelerating plunks play with negative space, hanging for just long enough to make you wonder if you’ll ever hear them again, while a micro world of electrical crushes and voices slip out of reach. Minor Science explores the contrast between still and scattered sounds throughout: the dense abstractions of ‘Summer Diary’ throw clattering plates and cups into a pool of reverb, leading into the long exposure of ‘Life Texture’ where slow chords and skittering audio clips portray contemplative joy. ‘Contingency’ toys with these two worlds even more, its staccato arpeggios fluctuate and fizz till they fill the track with reverent drumless trance.

Elastic sonic manipulations zip and expand across Absent Friends Vol. III, showing both the clamour of the world and its moments of solitude.