Laurence Bond Miller has never been one to color inside the lines, and "My Gymnasium Museum", his debut under the resurrected banner of Tinn Parrow and Company, is less an album than a sprawling funhouse of ideas - part collage, part parade, part dream diary scrawled in instruments rather than ink. Across twenty-two tracks he reopens doors left ajar in the early ’70s with his horn-heavy Clapfold Platune, while simultaneously polishing fresh gems cut in his multi-track workshop between 2022 and 2024. The result is maximalist in scope, mischievous in tone, and endlessly curious about how disparate sonic toys might behave if left unsupervised.

Miller, of course, is no newcomer. His lineage stretches through Ann Arbor’s underground like an eccentric family tree - brother to Roger (Mission of Burma, Birdsongs of the Mesozoic) and Ben (Destroy All Monsters), a veteran of Empool, The Fourth World Quartet, and countless other projects with names as wild as the music itself. What distinguishes this new venture, though, is the sheer carnival of timbres he orchestrates: clarinets and cornets rub shoulders with theremin, bagpipe chanter, Ebow guitar, and something called a “mosquito guitar”. One moment we’re marching alongside a Dada brass band seemingly lost on the way to Babylon Berlin; the next, we’re tumbling into a kitchen of collapsing percussion and accordion sighs. The record rarely lingers on one idea long enough for comfort, preferring instead to yank the rug with a wink, offering “Pancake Heaven” after “Library Paste”, or a Lennon–McCartney reimagining sitting happily between dadaist inventions.

There’s a sly humor coursing through these tracks - an irreverence toward solemn notions of art music. Yet the humor doesn’t trivialize; rather, it animates the project with a sense of fearless play. Miller treats genres like building blocks in a child’s gymnasium, stacking them into improbable towers and knocking them over just to see how they scatter. The “museum” of the title feels apt: each piece a peculiar exhibit, some shimmering with nostalgia, others veering into surrealist performance. But unlike most museums, here you’re encouraged to touch everything, blow into the horns, twang the odd strings, get lost in the hall of mirrors.

Listening through, one senses an artist who never stopped being the eighteen-year-old drafting hallucinogenic notation for friends in a marching band that couldn’t march straight. Decades on, Miller has only gained the patience and skill to frame that chaos with precision. "My Gymnasium Museum" is both archive and prophecy, a wild anthology that refuses to stay still, that dares listeners to abandon linearity and embrace abundance. It is, in short, Laurence Bond Miller’s creative mind turned inside out: messy, exuberant, and deeply alive.