Some albums are like postcards from dreamland. Others, like "The Right Half", arrive as cryptic telegrams from a parallel dimension, inked in Morse code and filtered through a badly bruised amplifier. This debut from Davide Luciani and Jorge Quintela isn’t here to please; it’s here to haunt, hover, coil, and glitch its way through the reverberant cavities of your listening space. It’s not the kind of album you put on - it’s the kind that "puts you through" something.

Luciani (Berlin-based sonic sculptor and architectural sound-whisperer) and Quintela (Porto’s resident noise-conjuror and audiovisual alchemist) may have been friends for fifteen years, but "The Right Half" feels less like a conversation between buddies and more like a séance between estranged frequencies. Together, they summon a hybrid beast - somewhere between musique concrète and machine possession, half-ambient drone, half short-circuiting thought experiment. There’s feedback, yes, but it’s not your garden-variety wall-of-noise feedback. It's more like feedback that’s been living alone in a cave for a decade and has decided to try philosophy.

The record slithers through its eleven tracks like a multilingual ghost train. Titles such as "Sao Px", "13TRT", or "Ariadne’s Thread" read like forgotten transmission labels from failed Mars rovers. "Over the last land" opens the record like the ambient hum of a faulty overhead projector trying to broadcast geological trauma. Then "Santa Caterina" arrives with rhythms that don’t so much “groove” as stumble beautifully - drunken electroacoustic limbs flailing through corridors lined with tape hiss.

Midway, "Aruba Dub" emerges as a mirage: all scorched delay lines and echoing cavities, like someone buried Lee "Scratch" Perry's mixing board under a basalt formation and fed it Ryoji Ikeda for breakfast. "Andromeda Courtyard" could easily soundtrack a surveillance camera feed from a cathedral floating in deep space, while "Deep North South" (the longest piece here) achieves something akin to glacial dub - the tectonic version of a slow jam.

What’s particularly seductive about "The Right Half" is its refusal to resolve. It teeters on narrative without ever giving in. You sense literary shadows - perhaps Beckett muttering through an amp stack, or Borges designing labyrinths with Max/MSP - but you’re never handed the map. This is music with spatial memory: fragments are routed through speakers, cabinets, PAs, walls, possibly even refrigerators, and returned altered, carrying room tone like perfume or bloodstains.

Technically, this is a highly physical record. Most of its sounds feel like they’ve passed through metal and wood and sweaty cables, acquiring grime, resonance, and a healthy disrespect for cleanliness. It’s musique concrète with soil under its fingernails. If Bernard Parmegiani and Russell Haswell ever shared a studio, the result might’ve felt a bit like this - ritual precision slashed open by joyful sabotage.

And yet, for all its abrasion, "The Right Half" is also strangely beautiful - sometimes even delicate. The closing track "Ariadne's Thread" is an almost melodic gesture toward resolution, but it’s the kind of resolution that leaves you with more questions. You’ve reached the centre of the maze, yes, but the Minotaur turns out to be a mirror.

As an object, the release is no less considered: issued on CD and digital, adorned by the minimal elegance of Mote Studio’s design, and touched by the mastering hands of Giuseppe Ielasi and Marta De Pascalis - who probably had to gently convince the record not to disintegrate from sheer textural overload.

In the end, "The Right Half" is not a record you understand. It’s one you experience like a dream you half-remember, a message scrawled across multiple dimensions, or perhaps just the "right" half of a larger, still-unknown whole. It may not give you the answers, but it certainly knows where the echoes live.