With nary a naturally occurring sound to be heard, Rrill Bell crafts a liquid environment teeming with robotic life, schools of squirming motor-hearts all hunting/escaping each other in a dizzying array of electro-cross-currents. The setting is surrealist turbulence and a roving, unmappable balance of perpetual transitions, Rrill Bell executing all this by fucking heavily with the physics of magnetic tape, time, and stress limit. There isn’t any “mood" so much as a “state of be(wilder)ing”; &this method of cohesion being pulled off is pretty magical. Headphones a MUST.
and/or
— Jacob An Kittenplan
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