There is something faintly comic about naming a jazz album "Entropies" and then spending forty-four minutes demonstrating that everything is, in fact, under control. Espen Berg Trio are hardly interested in letting the furniture fly out of the windows, but neither are they content with keeping every object politely in its assigned place. "Entropies" is music fascinated by the point at which structure begins to loosen, when a pattern remains recognisable while its internal logic quietly starts misbehaving. The result is a piano-trio record that sounds meticulously constructed and surprisingly alive to accidents.

Espen Berg, Bárður Reinert Poulsen and Simon Albertsen have been playing together since 2014, long enough for their communication to have moved beyond the obvious mechanics of piano, bass and drums. Berg has meanwhile developed a substantial career as both pianist and composer, including solo work and collaborations across the Norwegian jazz scene, while the trio has toured extensively in Europe and Asia. Their fifth album arrives after nearly three years of development, and that long gestation is audible in the precision of the writing. Yet "Entropies" never gives the impression of having been ironed flat before being released. The compositions leave room for spontaneous decisions, polymetric structures and changes of density that make the music feel as though it is constantly negotiating with itself.

The opening "Equilibrium Suite" immediately plays a small joke on its own title. Part One establishes a relatively calm field, with Berg's piano moving through supple figures while Poulsen and Albertsen provide a rhythmic environment that is less accompaniment than active weather. The balance is temporary. Part Two takes the material somewhere more animated, allowing patterns to recur in altered forms and rhythmic relationships to become increasingly slippery. The important thing is that the trio does not dramatise this instability. There is no musical siren announcing that Disorder Has Arrived. The musicians simply alter the conditions and carry on.

That ability to make complexity feel conversational is one of Berg's strongest qualities. His piano playing can be extraordinarily busy without becoming cluttered, partly because the left and right hands often seem to inhabit different rhythmic climates. Poulsen does not merely reinforce the lower register, either. His bass frequently acts as a counterweight or alternative route through the composition, while Albertsen has a particularly sharp sense of when not to fill a space. The trio's sophistication lies less in how many things they can play simultaneously than in how precisely they can decide which thing should happen next.

"Rue Saint-Michel" offers a different kind of concentration. Berg wrote several pieces for the album during a 2024 residency in Vence, southern France, and this one took its title from a street there. The music is comparatively open and lyrical, with Flavia Huarachi's flute and Joakim Munkner's cello adding colours that soften the trio's core sound without obscuring it. There is a sense of lightness here, but not relaxation in the conventional smooth-jazz sense. The rhythm section keeps the piece slightly off-centre, as though the melody has been given a beautiful view but is not entirely certain which direction the road goes.

"The Parade" is where the trio's rhythmic personality becomes particularly obvious. Berg's melodic ideas remain sharply defined while the bass and drums continually rearrange their surroundings. Poulsen's playing gives the piece a physical propulsion, and Albertsen seems to regard the beat as something that can be approached from several angles rather than a fixed piece of municipal infrastructure. The music is energetic without simply becoming fast, which is an important distinction. Speed is easy. Momentum is harder.

Then comes "Nap of the Earth", one of the album's most intriguing little pieces precisely because it refuses to behave like a miniature version of the others. Its repeated piano patterns establish a hypnotic framework, while guitar and vocals from Nils Olav Johansen add an unfamiliar texture. The result hints at minimalist repetition without settling comfortably inside it. It is almost a sketch of another album hiding inside this one, a brief suggestion that the trio could take its fascination with repetition, asymmetry and gradual change considerably further.

"XXI" and "Eidsvals" return the focus to the trio itself. Here the balance between composition and interaction becomes increasingly difficult to separate. Berg's themes are strong enough to survive substantial rhythmic manipulation, but they do not dictate every movement. "Eidsvals" in particular gives Poulsen space to step forward, showing why the bass is so important to the album's sense of motion. Albertsen remains comparatively economical, yet his interventions repeatedly change the apparent weight of the music. Three players can produce an enormous amount of information without sounding as though they are competing for the last available microphone.

And then there is "Russians", the inevitable moment when someone decides that a Sting song belongs on a contemporary Norwegian piano-trio album. On paper, it is exactly the sort of idea that could collapse under the weight of its own cleverness. In practice, Berg's arrangement treats the melody as something malleable rather than sacred. The song is recognisable, but its familiar emotional architecture is gradually opened up. The trio gives it more space, lets the harmony breathe differently, and allows the instrumental interplay to become the real subject. The presence of Munkner's cello adds another layer to an arrangement that manages to avoid both reverence and parody.

The closing "Transients" is brief and restless, and its title feels appropriate without needing to become a thesis statement. Fragments appear, disappear and reconfigure themselves with a slightly nervous energy. After the album's more expansive compositions, this compression is effective. It leaves the impression of a system still moving after the formal conclusion has already been reached. The record does not end because all the questions have been resolved. It ends because the musicians have decided that forty-four minutes is probably enough time to make their point before entropy starts sending them the bill.

The album's influences are broad enough to be potentially dangerous: Berg has cited figures such as Craig Taborn, Nik BÄrtsch, Keith Jarrett and Brad Mehldau, musicians whose approaches to rhythm, harmony and improvisation could easily produce an album sounding like an academic conference with cymbals. "Entropies" avoids that trap because those influences are absorbed into a trio identity that has developed over more than a decade. The music does not resemble a collection of references. It sounds like musicians who have listened widely and then gone back to arguing among themselves.

What makes the album particularly convincing is that its central opposition, order versus dissolution, never becomes simplistic. The music is not divided into “composed” passages and “free” passages, as though two teams had been assigned opposite halves of the pitch. Instead, composition creates the conditions in which freedom becomes meaningful. A melody can be memorable precisely because the rhythm destabilises it. A repeated figure can become expressive because it refuses to return identically. Silence can carry weight because the musicians have established enough density for its absence to register.

There is a certain Scandinavian stereotype that contemporary Norwegian jazz must either involve melancholy, weather or a man staring at a fjord while contemplating the mortality of spruce trees. "Entropies" is considerably less solemn. Its technical sophistication is matched by a sense of play, and its most complicated structures are often the places where the trio sounds most amused by its own possibilities. That playfulness is not decorative. It is what prevents the album's conceptual ambitions from becoming heavy-handed.

Ultimately, "Entropies" is not really about disorder. It is about the elasticity of order: how far a pattern can be bent before it becomes something new, how much freedom a composition can accommodate before its identity disappears, and how three musicians can remain unmistakably themselves while continually changing the circumstances in which they operate. Berg writes the maps, Poulsen and Albertsen keep moving the landmarks, and the listener is left to work out whether the resulting landscape is carefully planned or merely very good at pretending to be accidental.

Probably both. Which, for a piano trio, is a rather productive state of confusion.

Film music has an awkward job. It is supposed to make us feel something without announcing that it is making us feel something, support an image without stealing its clothes, and disappear into the film while somehow remaining memorable afterwards. Leo Svensson Sander’s "La belle année" solves the problem by doing something much simpler: it behaves like memory. It arrives in fragments, repeats itself with slight alterations, changes scale, disappears before it has quite finished explaining itself, and occasionally returns wearing a different face.

The soundtrack was written for Angelica Ruffier’s hybrid documentary "La belle année", a film born from the aftermath of her estranged father’s death and the rediscovery of an intense teenage fascination with her history teacher. The film premiered in the Tiger Competition at Rotterdam in 2026, where it received the Special Jury Award, and subsequently travelled through the festival circuit. Its structure moves between present-day observation, diary material and more openly constructed or dreamlike sequences, making the distinction between remembered experience and recreated experience deliberately unstable.

Svensson Sander responds with remarkable economy. Rather than covering the screen in an orchestral blanket, he largely works with solo instruments: cello, piano, clarinet, synthesizer, bass recorder and voice. The decision is crucial. These sounds retain the physical individuality of the people producing them. A cello does not merely signify sadness, a piano does not automatically mean memory, and a clarinet has thankfully not been sentenced to spend its entire existence representing European melancholy. Instead, the instruments become almost tactile extensions of the characters and their surroundings.

The composer is particularly well suited to this kind of ambiguity. Stockholm-based, born in Skåne in 1975, Svensson Sander began within classical music before moving through Scandinavian folk, pop, improvisation and experimental music. He was a member of The Tiny and has worked with artists and ensembles ranging from Time Is a Blind Guide and Fire! Orchestra to Goran Kajfeš and Lena Willemark, while his parallel career has increasingly involved composition for film, theatre and dance. He also studied film-music composition at Stockholm’s Royal College of Music. That mixture of disciplines explains why these pieces rarely sound as though they belong exclusively to the concert hall or the cinema. They occupy the rather more interesting territory between the two.

The opening "Spegel" is a perfect example. Alex Zethson’s piano provides the entire piece with an almost miniature sense of architecture, while its mirrored melodic behaviour reflects one of the film's central ideas: identity as something produced through fascination with another person. The musical material moves in opposite directions, creating a tiny mechanism of attraction and resistance. It lasts less than two minutes, but its brevity is part of the point. A memory does not generally wait around until the composer has completed a satisfactory development section.

"Efter" and "Sysslorna" bring Svensson Sander's cello into the more mundane side of the film's emotional landscape. The distinction matters. Ruffier’s story is not constructed solely from dramatic recollection; there are houses to empty, objects to move, practical tasks to complete after someone has died. Grief, in other words, has paperwork. Svensson Sander understands that mourning is often experienced through repetition and routine rather than permanent cinematic thunder. The cello therefore feels close to the body, sometimes conversational, sometimes almost like a voice that has decided not to use words.

Then "Rosen" expands the emotional vocabulary without abandoning its intimacy. Zethson's piano can suggest tenderness without becoming sugary, partly because Svensson Sander is interested in how a small motif changes rather than in manufacturing an obvious emotional payoff. Across the soundtrack, fragments are stretched, compressed, multiplied or displaced. Some return in altered forms, creating relationships that become clearer only retrospectively. This is an unusually intelligent approach to film scoring because it imitates the way memory actually behaves: it edits us without asking permission.

The night sequence begins to loosen that restraint. "In i natten", with synth and drums, changes the physical character of the album almost immediately. The music no longer seems attached to the practical world of rooms, boxes and household chores. It enters a less stable territory in which desire and imagination can interfere with chronology. "Dimman", featuring Per “Texas” Johansson on clarinet alongside Svensson Sander on bass recorder, makes that transition even stranger. The combination is fragile, slightly archaic and almost impossible to place historically. It sounds like two people trying to remember the same dream and discovering that their versions disagree.

Johansson's clarinet becomes particularly evocative in "Dag mot skymning" and "Farfar". There is an unusual amount of expressive information contained in the instrument's breath and attack, and Svensson Sander wisely does not over-orchestrate it. The clarinet can sound intimate one moment and oddly distant the next, which suits a film concerned with people who exist simultaneously as present individuals and remembered figures. It also reinforces the album's central movement from day toward night, from physical obligation toward imagination.

The soundtrack's most revealing trick is perhaps its refusal to distinguish neatly between the personal and the fictional. "Hon heter Sylvie", with cello and voice, turns the name itself into musical material. The history teacher who occupies the protagonist's teenage imagination is neither simply a remembered person nor simply a character in an old fantasy. She has become part of the machinery through which the protagonist understands herself. The score consequently does not need to tell us that memory can invent people. It demonstrates the process musically.

By the time "Vattenfall" arrives, piano and percussion create a slightly more kinetic surface, before "Vidare" returns to cello for the final minute. That last title, meaning “forward” or “onward,” could easily have produced a motivational-calendar ending. Fortunately, Svensson Sander has better taste. The piece does not triumphantly resolve the story. It simply continues. After death, desire, memory, adolescence and all the domestic debris left behind, continuation is perhaps the most honest conclusion available.

At only around twenty-seven minutes, "La belle année" is concise enough to feel almost like a suite of recollected photographs. Yet its brevity makes the relationships between the pieces more important, not less. Motifs behave like recurring thoughts; instrumentation marks changes in psychological temperature; the alternation between daytime practicality and nocturnal fantasy gives the sequence a subtle dramatic rhythm. Heard away from the film, the music retains enough ambiguity to create its own images. Heard in relation to the film, those images become more complicated rather than merely more obvious.

That is ultimately what makes this soundtrack successful as an independent release. It does not attempt to reproduce the film in audio form. Instead, it preserves its method: observation interrupted by imagination, the ordinary invaded by the remembered, the present continually negotiating with versions of the past. Svensson Sander's music understands that intimacy rarely requires a large gesture. Sometimes it needs only a cello, a few piano notes, a clarinet breathing slightly differently, and enough silence around them to let the memory become unreliable.

"La belle année" is therefore less a collection of cues than a small album about the peculiar mechanics of remembering. It knows that the past does not return intact, that desire edits history, and that even grief has to coexist with washing dishes and emptying rooms. The clever part is that none of this is presented as a grand philosophical revelation. It simply appears in twelve short pieces, quietly changing shape as they pass. Memory, like film music, apparently prefers to work while nobody is looking.

There are musicians who approach death with a whisper, and there are those who apparently feel that the appropriate response is to assemble an orchestra, a choir, three percussionists, an organ, an accordion, a tuba, several saxophones and enough low frequencies to make the afterlife check its foundations. Gellért Szabó belongs rather firmly to the second category. Yet "Vom Willen und Tod" is not simply an exercise in musical excess. For all its enormous forces and operatic emotional temperature, this is an album preoccupied with something surprisingly intimate: what happens to the self when the things that once gave it direction begin to disappear.

Szabó, a Leipzig-based composer, conductor and electric guitarist, studied guitar at the Franz Liszt Hochschule für Musik Weimar with Frank Möbus and also pursued composition with Ulrich Kreppein and Stefan Schultze. His Ideal Orchestra, founded in Leipzig, grew out of experimental and improvisational practice, bringing together musicians from jazz, free improvisation and contemporary music. That background matters because "Vom Willen und Tod" is much more than an attempt to write a conventional large-scale orchestral work. Szabó has learned from improvisation how unstable a large ensemble can be, and from composition how to turn that instability into deliberate architecture. The result is music that sounds capable of falling apart at any moment while being, in fact, exceptionally controlled.

The album begins with "Geburt", only two and a half minutes long, but its brevity is deceptive. It does not so much introduce the record as throw open a door onto a much larger psychological space. "Tod" then takes nearly twelve minutes to examine the opposite pole, and here Szabó's peculiar gift becomes obvious: he can make density feel dramatic without reducing it to mere loudness. Brass, reeds, strings, percussion and voices accumulate until the ensemble becomes less a collection of individual timbres than a single organism with too many lungs. There are eruptions, but also moments when the mass seems to inhale and hesitate. Death is not represented as a theatrical villain. It is a force constantly altering the behaviour of everything around it.

The two Brahms-derived pieces are crucial precisely because they prevent the album from becoming a closed system of Szabó mythology. "Herr, lehre doch mich" brings in the historical weight of the "German Requiem", but the treatment is not antiquarian. The familiar sacred material becomes a point of contact between centuries, between inherited consolation and contemporary uncertainty. Then "Requiem für Gellért Szabó" follows, a title that initially sounds almost indecently self-dramatising until the album's personal context makes it stranger and sadder: this is not simply a fantasy of one's own funeral, but part of a work shaped by the death of Szabó's father and by questions of origin, belonging and inheritance. The personal and the theatrical keep looking at one another across the music, neither entirely willing to blink.

And then comes "Wille", the eighteen-minute centre of gravity. This is where the orchestra's accumulated vocabulary finally seems to escape its containers. The music moves through enormous clusters, sharply etched instrumental attacks, choral presences and stretches of near-overwhelming orchestral pressure, but the important thing is not simply scale. "Wille" is about directed force. The German word suggests will, desire, determination, perhaps even stubbornness, and the piece behaves accordingly. It keeps pushing forward even when the music seems to have reached a point at which forward movement should no longer be possible. At its most intense, it has the slightly alarming quality of an orchestra trying to think itself into existence through sheer volume.

This is also where Szabó's relationship with improvisation becomes most revealing. The Ideal Orchestra originally developed through conducted improvisation and unusual forms of collective coordination, but "Vom Willen und Tod" sounds considerably more composed and concentrated than some of the ensemble's earlier material. That does not mean the exploratory impulse has disappeared. It has been compressed into the writing itself. Individual instruments periodically emerge from the mass like thoughts surfacing from a fever, while the percussion section supplies an almost physical sense of resistance. The orchestra does not merely perform the score; it seems to wrestle with it.

The voices are equally important. Rather than using the singers as conventional narrators, Szabó often treats the human voice as another unstable colour inside the larger body of the ensemble. This is especially effective because the record repeatedly moves between gigantic collective gestures and vulnerable fragments. After the accumulated pressure of "Wille", the closing "Traurigkeit" is almost brutally simple in its effect. The German title means sadness, but the music does not need to explain the emotion. After all that force, a relatively exposed musical gesture can feel more devastating than another crescendo. Apparently even twenty musicians eventually discover that volume is not the only way to frighten the heart.

The church in which the album was recorded adds an important physical dimension. Sacred architecture is not treated here merely as picturesque background. Its resonance becomes part of the composition, extending the orchestra beyond the number of bodies actually present. The organ, meanwhile, is another reminder that Szabó is not afraid of historical baggage. Brahms, church acoustics, requiem traditions, Mahlerian scale, modern improvisation and contemporary experimental composition are all allowed into the same room. This could easily become a catalogue of cultural references. Instead, the music makes them compete for oxygen.

There is a danger in work this emotionally charged: existential seriousness can very quickly become self-important. "Vom Willen und Tod" occasionally walks right up to that cliff, looks over it, and then somehow keeps going. Its saving grace is physicality. The brass crack, the percussion hits, the strings scrape and swell, the voices tremble, and the organ adds another layer of historical gravity. The music never sounds like an essay about mortality. It sounds like a group of people physically trying to contain an idea that is too large for them.

That may be why the album's most affecting moments are not necessarily its biggest ones. Szabó understands that grandeur only becomes meaningful when something fragile is placed inside it. The gigantic passages acquire their emotional force because somewhere underneath them there is a person mourning a father, remembering where he came from, wondering what remains when inheritance becomes memory. The orchestra can construct an almost absurdly vast sonic body, but it cannot prevent the small human fact at its centre: someone is gone.

"Vom Willen und Tod" consequently feels less like a requiem in the conventional sense than an argument between the desire to transcend mortality and the stubborn fact of having a body that cannot come along. Its scale is enormous, but its subject is not. It is grief, ambition, memory, love and the rather inconvenient human conviction that our individual existence ought to mean something. Szabó simply gives that conviction twenty musicians and asks them to make it audible. The result is excessive, vulnerable, occasionally terrifying and, at its best, genuinely moving. Death gets the final word eventually, as it has a notoriously good contract, but for almost forty minutes Szabó's orchestra makes a considerable amount of noise in reply.

Longtime ambient/experimental guitarist Aidan Baker, from Toronto, Canada has been releasing music since 2000 and of the hundreds of albums he released on various labels, sad to say the only one I'm familiar with is 'Gathering Blue' (2009) on the now defunct Equation Records boutique label, primarily because I know the owner and had a CD (Chemistry Set - 'Experiments From The Lab', 2023) released on that label myself. 'Gathering Blue' was a good deal more calm, gentle and meditative than 'Adverse Camber,' and there was a little singing on it, albeit very much relegated to the background. This is not to say that either of these albums are indicative of Baker's oeuvre; one could spend months listening to his discography and come away with only a general sense of what Baker's music is all about.

'Adverse Camber' is five tracks in a little over 47 minutes, and as Baker describes it, "A return to simple solo guitar with heavy ambient sounds, combining drifting drones with noisy textures in attempt to encompass both the light and the dark at the same time." All sounds on the album were achieved via playing electric guitar, and with electronic processing of the same. "Petrol/Jasmin" employs some rapid finger-plucking obscured by electronics over a droning background, adding in some feedback as the track progresses, also echoey sliding fret noises. The feedback shifts in waves as the track nears its conclusion. "Coma" turns up the volume and intensity on the noise aspect, and anyone expecting anything akin to traditional ambient is likely to be put off before the track gets really interesting. Halfway through when the distortion subsides, a dream-like atmosphere emerges in thick, dense layers of ambient drone. How this is achieved with guitar is beyond me but suffice to say that it is remarkable.

"A Scent Like Oblivion" begins with harmonic picking that could be reminiscent of clockwork - like the inner working of a pocket watch. It is hypnotic and meditative up to the point where snarling, backwards feedback takes over and twists it into oblivion. "Everything Is Dark Until You Say Yes" seems to be the lightest, calmest track on the album, with various forms of strumming through electronic processing. 'Adverse Camber' is closed out by “Superelevation," the longest track on the album at 18:26. It begins with dark or grey ambient drones in shifting, echoed tones. This continues until about halfway through a more industrial type drone emerges, something you'd hear on certtain releases by Peter Andersson's Raison d'être. The industrial noise element increases and dominates the track for a while, re-emerging and subsiding like a monster being birthed from the primordial ooze. Before that phase is over, a single drone of light emerges from the firmament, and all is lifted back into the galactic cosmos.

This is a remarkable album that can blend experimental noise with ambient and not overshadow either. Experimental but stimulating, 'Adverse Camber' should have listeners searching out Aidan Baker's other releases for more, and there certainly are quite a few to choose from.

An organ looks like an instrument, behaves like a small weather system, occupies the architecture around it, and has spent centuries persuading people that sound should probably be taken seriously. Puce Moment’s "O.R.G.II" does not exactly dispute this reputation, but it removes the ceremonial tie and asks what remains when the organ is allowed to become a machine again. The answer is a remarkably strange and patient record, where pipe, air, electricity and repetition gradually stop behaving like separate categories.

Nicolas Devos and Pénélope Michel have been circling this question for years. Their 2019 "O.R.G." approached the limonaire organ as both instrument and conceptual object, while Puce Moment as a whole has developed out of their broader work across sound, visual art, electronics and performance. Their history with Cercueil is important here too, not because "O.R.G.II" sounds like an experimental-electronic album with an organ pasted onto it, but because they have long been interested in what happens when apparently incompatible materials are made to occupy the same physical and emotional space. The collaboration with choreographer Christian Rizzo provided another decisive context: their music for "à l’ombre d’un vaste détail, hors tempête", premiered at the 2025 Biennale de Lyon, was conceived for a work in which apparently ordinary gestures become strangely concentrated and perceptually charged. That sensibility survives here, even without the dancers.

The six pieces of "O.R.G.II" are therefore less interested in conventional development than in alteration. "Simoon" begins as though someone has opened a large, dusty door somewhere inside the building and discovered that the building has opinions. Tones emerge, overlap and acquire weight; the electronic material does not simply decorate the organ but seems to question its behaviour. "Pavana" introduces a more recognisable suggestion of form, although Puce Moment wisely avoid allowing the title to turn the piece into a historical costume drama. What matters is the friction between an idea of musical order and the unstable matter underneath it. The organ can sound monumental, but it can also sound granular, breathy, almost embarrassingly physical.

This is where the electronic component becomes particularly effective. Rather than using synthesis to modernise the organ, Devos and Michel make the two systems contaminate one another. Sustained frequencies begin to acquire the stubbornness of acoustic phenomena, while the organ loses some of its traditional sense of hierarchy. Registers become colours; resonance becomes material; repetition becomes a pressure applied slowly enough that the listener can notice the smallest changes. The effect is not really “organ plus drone,” which would be a rather easy equation. It is closer to watching two kinds of machinery gradually develop an awkward relationship and discovering that awkwardness can be musically productive.

The titles add another layer without functioning as a secret decoder ring. "Simoon", "Imbat" and "Tehuano" evoke winds, while "Ruach" and "Ilma" carry associations with breath, spirit and air across different linguistic and cultural contexts. Even "Pavana", with its historical dance reference, seems less like a destination than another piece of cultural debris placed inside the machine. This fits Puce Moment’s broader interest in what they describe as fictional ethnology: not the collecting of exotic references for decorative purposes, but the construction of imaginary systems in which musical and visual forms can mutate.

"Ruach" is perhaps where the record’s central ambiguity becomes most apparent. The music seems to hover between something entirely physical and something that the human brain, being constitutionally incapable of leaving things alone, wants to interpret as spiritual. The organ certainly encourages that response. Its history makes transcendence almost unavoidable, but Puce Moment repeatedly drag attention back toward mechanism: air, pipes, vibration, electrical control, resonance. Their approach is secular without being reductively materialist. The machine is not stripped of mystery; the mystery is relocated inside the machine.

"Ilma", the longest piece at more than fourteen minutes, benefits from this patience. There is no need for a grand climax because the real drama lies in persistence. Small shifts become events. Frequencies that initially seem static begin to reveal internal movement, and the listener becomes increasingly aware that “nothing happening” and “something happening very slowly” are radically different experiences. The distinction is one of the great tests of drone music, and "O.R.G.II" generally passes it by refusing to confuse duration with inertia. "Tehuano", considerably shorter, provides a useful final contraction, leaving the album less like a completed argument than a system whose machinery has simply stopped moving for the moment.

There is also something quietly funny about the whole enterprise. The pipe organ, an instrument historically employed to make human beings feel small in the presence of eternity, has here been introduced to modular synthesis, another technology with a suspicious fondness for cables, control systems and knobs. Neither side wins. Instead, they produce an unstable truce in which sacred grandeur, mechanical labour and electronic abstraction keep rubbing against one another. It is difficult to imagine a more appropriate musical situation for the present century, when even our attempts to escape machinery usually involve buying another machine.

What ultimately distinguishes "O.R.G.II" is its refusal to make the organ either respectable or strange for the sake of it. Puce Moment listen to the instrument closely enough to find its rough edges, its breath, its limitations and its capacity for transformation. The result is music that can feel ritualistic without pretending to belong to a ritual, contemplative without becoming decorative, and electronic without needing to announce its technological credentials every five minutes. The organ remains an organ, but it has been allowed to forget, temporarily, what society expects an organ to be.

And perhaps that is the real achievement of "O.R.G.II": not making an ancient instrument sound contemporary, but making it sound temporarily undecided about its own identity. Six pieces, nearly an hour, a handful of pipes, some electronics and a considerable amount of patience. Humanity has spent centuries building enormous instruments to communicate with the heavens; Puce Moment seem content to let one listen to itself breathing instead.