"Material", the latest release from the unlikely duo of Connor D’Netto and Yvette Ofa Agapow, is the kind of album that might prompt you to stare at your record collection and wonder when you last touched any of it. It’s a work of ambient and experimental art that feels more like a dissertation on the fragility of existence than something to casually spin on a Sunday afternoon. And perhaps that’s exactly the point.

D’Netto and Agapow, who reportedly had never played together before this collaboration, have managed to produce something that feels simultaneously intimate and detached — much like the experience of swiping through a stranger’s Instagram feed late at night. There’s a voyeuristic pleasure in hearing these two artists map their sonic territory, as they weave together threads of personal trauma, artistic frustration, and a pervasive sense of mourning. Yet, just like those curated social media moments, it’s impossible to shake the feeling that there’s something more they’re not telling you.

The opening track, "Material I: rough fall, skinned arms", sets the tone with its blend of tape hiss and metallic clangs, almost like someone trying to stitch together memories from a nightmarish childhood. It’s eight minutes of fractured beauty, where every scrape and distortion feels like a deliberate mark on the canvas of your psyche. The piece lingers like the sensation of falling and just barely catching yourself — an unsettling reminder that life’s traumas don’t fade; they just get louder.

"Material II: linen lain on stone" offers a more subdued respite, if you can call it that. Here, the duo plays with softer textures — natural fibers and the cold, unyielding surface of stone — to evoke a feeling of resigned surrender. It’s the sound of someone laying down in a field of tall grass, staring up at an indifferent sky, waiting for something to happen. But nothing ever does.

As you wade deeper into the album, with tracks like "Material III: it comes in waves" and "Material IV: dopamine deficit", the uneasy balance between serenity and chaos becomes even more pronounced. These are soundscapes that shift under your feet like sand, creating the sensation of walking on a beach where the tide could swallow you whole at any moment. D’Netto and Agapow’s fascination with repetition — those "recurrent sonic material and cells" they mention in the liner notes — comes to the fore here, as the same motifs resurface, but never quite the way you expect. It’s as if they’re playing a game of sonic cat-and-mouse, daring you to catch the patterns before they disappear into the mist.

The closing track, "Material V: in time", feels like a reluctant concession to the need for resolution, though it offers little in the way of comfort. There’s a sense of time stretching out endlessly before you, but it’s not the kind of expansive horizon that invites exploration. Instead, it’s more like the ticking of a clock in a quiet room — each second reminding you that time is running out, but you’re not quite sure for what.

Musically, "Material" is a challenging listen. It demands your full attention and rewards it with moments of disquieting beauty and introspection. It’s not an album that reveals itself easily, and frankly, it’s not interested in doing so. There’s a deliberate opacity here, a refusal to hold your hand or provide easy answers. But for those willing to dive into its murky depths, there’s a wealth of emotional and intellectual resonance to be found.

I can reasonably state that "Material" feels like an album that was never really meant to be heard — it’s more of a private conversation between two artists who happened to press ‘record’ while they were talking. And that’s both its greatest strength and its biggest challenge. For those attuned to the subtle frequencies of grief, anxiety, and artistic existentialism, this album might just be the soundtrack you never knew you needed. For everyone else, well, there’s always something easier to listen to.