I really enjoy splits because the contrast can also be part of the experience. It is also a good way to find people you otherwise would not have known about, which is the case for me here. Barrena is the work of Puerto Rican artist Jorge Castro, and I have known his work for a long, long time. Castro has been in the experimental scene since the 1990s, most notably as part of Cornucopia, as well as other projects including Clon, Origami Subtropika and DEFORMA. The nice thing about Castro’s work is that he is difficult to nail down. Some of his stuff is harsh noise, some of it is mellow ambient, but all of it is interesting. The label describes the project thus: “As Barrena, Castro turns harsh noise wall formations into a meditative experience where feedback, distortion and digital artifacts become elements for immersive listening rather than disruption.” I was not familiar with See Through Buildings, but this is the harsh noise wall project of Ben Rehling, who hails from Garden Grove, CA. Rehling previously recorded under the name Jennifer Wolski in the 1990s and as part of A Moth In The Wine and The Climate Refugees. The label describes this track as “representative of the carefully crafted, droney HNW that has become See Through Buildings’ signature sound.” Sounds like a good time, so let’s dive in and see how this all plays out.

We kick it off with Barrena and “Lament For Nuclear Winter.” This is a low, rumbling piece with plenty of static thrown in for good measure. The overall feel is like watching television static while riding in a boxcar on a freight train. . . . that you aren’t supposed to be on because you jumped on in the middle of the night. And why is this train going so fast? This conductor seems like a man on a mission. What is the cargo in this train anyway? The track subtly shifts over time, sometimes highlighting the rumble, and sometimes the static, but it is a pleasant listen.

On the other side, we have See Through Buildings and “Windows Reflect Dust,” which is a pummeling wall of noise that buries everything under a mountain of crunchy static. However, this is not the kind of wall of noise where the artist simply records the space between radio stations. Rather, there is a lot of subtlety if you give it a listen with headphones. Or maybe there isn’t and your mind adds stuff that isn’t there to make sense of the chaos. Either way, it is a good piece for those who like their noise incredibly harsh, but with some underlying complexity.

I appreciate that although this is harsh noise wall, it is not as static as some practitioners make it. There is a lot happening under the layers, and you sometimes have to dig deep to find it, but like the princess and the pea, it’s there if you can feel it. This is a solid release of harsh noise wall and well worth checking out. This album weighs in at around 48 minutes and is limited to 100 copies.

I was not familiar with this artist, prior to getting this in my mailbox, but rsn is the work of ThomasRosen, who hails from Mülheim, Germany. Rosen is also a member of the black drone metal group [ B O L T ] and runs the cassette label momentarily records. The label describes his work thus: “Under the banner of rsn, Rosen produces richly textured drone and ambient compositions often intended for resonant spaces like galleries and sonic installations.” This sounds like a good time, so let’s see where this deviation takes us.

“deviation #1.1” kicks it off with lush, slowly evolving drone music that shifts continually, keeping it from staying too static. “deviation #1.2” likewise consists of slowly evolving drone, but where the first track was more soothing, this one is a bit more gritty, with some sawtooth waves thrown in to give it a bit of an edge. “deviation #1.3” is much smoother drone. Soft and peaceful, with just a hint of dissonance to keep it interesting. This one builds over time, becoming increasingly intense. “deviation #1.4” closes it all off by taking a different approach. Rather than the wall of drone, this one ebbs and flows as waves of drone encompass you and then fade away. The slow change of intensity makes for an interesting experience.

In short, if you like drone, this will definitely be up your alley. It takes a lot of work to create drone music that does not sound like someone put a brick on a synthesizer, and Rosen is clearly willing to put in the work. This is well constructed soundscape that one can simply dissolve into. Well done. This album weighs in at around 42 minutes and is limited to 100 copies.

Gintas K is the work of Lithuanian composer Gintas Kraptavicius. He has been kicking around the experimental scene for quite some time, so I was familiar with his work to some extent. His Bandcamp pages describes himself as "a sound artist, composer exploring digital, live, computer music, granular synthesis sound aesthetics." As for this release, the label describes this album thus: "ambience, electroacoustical micromelodies and noise played and record live without overdub." Sounds like a good time, so let's dive in and see what we have here.

We start off with “Atmosfera #1,” which is really peaceful; sparse piano with what sounds like rain and random electronic noises added in to break up the mellow vibe. This becomes increasingly noisy as the track progresses before slipping back into the calm piano melody. “Atmosfera #2” keeps this feeling going with piano and analog noises. In some ways, it can be considered a continuation of the previous track. As it progresses, it moves into a more insistent piano line that is heavily processed and more insistent. “Atmosfera #3” keeps the piano going, but with more analog squiggles and what sounds like a snare drum hitting sporadically. Gintas makes use of quiet spaces to draw you in before unleashing a torrent of analog noises toward the end. “Atmosfera #4” keeps this going in a similar trajectory. Suddenly, “Atmosfera #5” changes it up, with noises that sound like a cat fight in the alley under your bedroom window. I'm sure that no cats were actually harmed in the making of this track, but this one brings the noiseiness. There is a bit of piano thrown in, but it is completely overshadowed by the noises. And now the cats are being abducted by aliens? If you are one of the people that didn’t come here to get mellow, this is the track for you. “Atmosfera #6” is a bit more chaotic, with a pleasant melody that is all over the place mixed with the ever present analog noises. “Atmosfera #7” reprises the mellow piano melody with waves of staticy noises. This then becomes noisier before returning to the original peacefulness.

Overall, this is a nice composition, with each track serving as different variations on the same theme, almost as if this is an album of remixes of one track. Thankfully, the main theme is pleasant and engaging, and although the tracks mostly sound similar, they are not the same. Nicely done. This album weighs in at around 51 minutes and is limited to 25 copies on CDR and 100 cassettes, so pick it up while you can.

Some musicians write albums. Others map territories. Craven Faults has been doing the latter for years, patiently sketching a peculiar cartography where analogue synthesizers behave like geological tools and melodies emerge the way old rail lines surface from peat and fog.
With "Sidings", the project’s third full-length double LP following "Erratics & Unconformities" and "Standers", the anonymous architect behind the name returns to the same terrain: northern England seen not through postcards but through strata. Landscapes here are layered with industry, abandoned engineering projects, folklore, and a quietly obsessive relationship with sound technology. It’s pastoral music, if your idea of pasture includes rusted rail yards, forgotten viaducts, and the faint electrical hum of machines that refuse to die.

Craven Faults has always worked within a language of slowly evolving analogue sequences. Repetition is the skeleton, but patience is the real instrument. "Sidings" stretches this approach across eight pieces that unfold like journeys rather than compositions. The opener “A. Ganger” immediately sets the tone: arpeggios rotate with deliberate inevitability, like wheels finding their rhythm after a long push uphill. There’s propulsion, but it’s not the impatient kind. It feels engineered rather than performed.

The album’s conceptual framework wanders through railway construction, remote communities, and a labyrinth of historical references that jump between continents and decades. Recording studios appear in the liner notes like distant signal posts: Olympic, Gold Star, Black Ark, Wally Heider. The implication is quietly mischievous. The building of railroads, the building of studios, the building of electronic music cultures. All forms of infrastructure, all shaping how energy travels.

“Stoneyman” is perhaps the clearest demonstration of Craven Faults’ craft. The sequence is simple, almost stubborn, but the surrounding textures shift like weather over open moorland. Synth tones accumulate warmth until they glow rather than pulse. You start noticing microscopic variations, tiny rhythmic hesitations. It’s hypnotic in the literal sense, not the fashionable one.

Shorter tracks like “Yard Loup” and “Drover Hole Sike” function almost like signposts along the route. Brief, skeletal, they let the larger pieces breathe. “Three Loaning End” and “Incline Huttes” introduce subtle harmonic turns that feel like a road suddenly bending around a hill you didn’t see coming.

Then there’s “Far Closes”, the fifteen-minute closing track that quietly confirms the whole project’s logic. By this point the album has trained your ears to accept slow development as narrative. The piece unfolds with a kind of stoic beauty: two chords, a patient sequence, and a gradually thickening atmosphere that seems to condense out of cold air. Minimal ingredients, maximum horizon.

The persistent mystery around the project’s identity has always been part of the appeal. Rumours circulate, theories multiply, but none of it matters much. Craven Faults works precisely because the music feels detached from personality. It behaves more like landscape than confession.

What "Sidings" does particularly well is reinforce the idea that electronic music can carry a sense of place without relying on obvious sonic clichés. There are no field recordings of wind or sheep. Instead, the geography emerges through structure: repetition as terrain, modulation as weather, analogue warmth as soil.

It also quietly continues a tradition running from early minimalist electronics to kosmische music and the experimental underground that treats synthesizers less like futuristic gadgets and more like patient mechanical companions. The sound is neither nostalgic nor aggressively modern. It simply persists.

By the end of "Sidings", the metaphor of railways feels unavoidable. Tracks branching, converging, disappearing into tunnels. Some lines abandoned, others still carrying cargo through the night. Craven Faults doesn’t hurry the journey. It lets the listener walk beside the rails, counting sleepers, watching distant red kites circle overhead.

In an age addicted to immediacy, this sort of music feels almost subversive. Nothing explodes, nothing begs for attention. The album just continues forward, mile after mile, quietly proving that sometimes two chords really are enough. Three, as the album itself suggests, would probably be extravagant.

There are artists who tour. Then there are artists who simply relocate their nervous system every few months and call it a life. Passepartout Duo belong firmly to the second category.

For nearly a decade, Nicoletta Favari and Christopher Salvito have treated geography as both instrument and accomplice. No permanent studio, no fixed coordinates. Just wires, wood, metal, circuits, and whatever room happens to resonate that week. Pieces from Places is less an album than a cartographic diary: twelve tracks released monthly, each stamped with a city but resistant to postcard nostalgia.

If you’ve followed their trajectory through Argot or the Central Asia train-born Vis-à-Vis, you’ll recognize the method: self-built synthesizers, DIY percussion, and an almost athletic choreography of shared instruments. They often play what is effectively one device together, like two operators piloting the same spacecraft. It should look impractical. It sounds inevitable.

What changes here is the framing. Each track is a location, but the music refuses tourism. “From Taipei” carries a humid patience, tones hovering as if unsure whether to condense into rhythm. “From Belgrade” snaps into a compact urban pulse, concise and alert. “From Fes” seems to listen more than it speaks, letting percussive fragments ricochet in imagined corridors. “From Trondheim” feels slowed by winter light, a kind of suspended breath rendered in circuitry.

The grooves remain slightly asymmetrical, that characteristic off-kilter propulsion that makes you question your own internal metronome. Over it, their synth lines glow rather than blaze. There is warmth, but it is engineered warmth, coaxed out of handmade machines that never quite behave like commercial gear. One suspects that unpredictability is the point.

“From Chengdu”, the longest piece, stretches the concept. It unfolds gradually, as if mapping a walk rather than a skyline. Motifs emerge, dissolve, reappear altered. The duo’s long experience of near-continuous travel since 2015 has sharpened their sense of structure: these are miniatures, yes, but rarely sketches. Even the shortest track, “From Rauma,” feels finished, like a haiku written in voltage.

The artwork’s reference to the Rostocker Pfeilstorch, the stork discovered with an African arrow lodged in its neck, is not subtle. Migration leaves marks. Movement is proof, but also wound. Passepartout Duo seem aware of both sides. Their music does not romanticize travel; it documents its friction. Airports, residencies, temporary studios, borrowed rooms. Inspiration is negotiated, not harvested.

There is also a quiet technological subtext. Their collaboration with KOMA Elektronik on the Chromaplane hints at a philosophy: instruments are not sacred relics but evolving organisms. In Pieces from Places, you hear that ethos everywhere. Sound is built, adapted, reconfigured. Nothing is static except the listener’s assumption that it might be.

This interesting project seems to refuse to anchor identity to a single sonic homeland. The language they speak is unmistakably theirs, yet geographically unplaceable. It absorbs atmosphere without mimicking it. No field recordings of obvious street noise. No easy exoticism. Just two people listening hard to where they are, then translating that attention into rhythm and timbre.

Releasing it monthly was a clever constraint. It mirrors their lifestyle: episodic, anticipatory, slightly unstable. By the end of the twelve pieces, you do not feel like you have traveled the world. You feel like you have shared a method of being in it.

And in an era when “global” often means algorithmic flattening, there is something almost defiant about this approach. Two humans, a handful of homemade machines, and a stubborn commitment to listening. It should not be radical. Yet here we are.

Pieces from Places does not ask where home is. It suggests that home might simply be the act of paying attention together. For a duo perpetually in transit, that is a surprisingly grounded conclusion.