Review: Bill Orcutt's approach to the guitar feels less like playing and more like detonating: a flurry of stabbing phrases, mangled blues motifs and broken time signatures that teeter constantly on the edge of collapse. It's a sound he's refined over decades, from his early days in Miami's punk and noise scenes to his present-day experiments in live-coded digital abstraction. This new album, which features two versions of 'Anxiety of Symmetry', finds him at his most feral and funny in years i a twisted tribute to the clunky MIDI guitar presets of the 90s, rendered via his cracked-software experiments with two fifteen-minute compositions built from a single concept: six sung numbers, each mapped precisely to pitches in a major scale. These micro-phrases ('1-2', '1-2-3', and so on) repeat and multiply, creating swirling polymetric harmonies that flicker between gentle hypnosis and algorithmic overload. Female voices loop in cycles of uneven length, forming structures reminiscent of Glass's Einstein on the Beach, but without its theatricalityithis is music of obsession, not spectacle. The emotional register is unusually soft for Orcutt, but behind the surface calm lies a meticulous compulsion. In an essay of the same name, he aligns this method with "Just Right" OCD, proposing a feedback loop between mental fixation and machine logic. What emerges isn't ambient in any passive sense, but a kind of orderly unravelingicomposition as therapeutic ritual, echoing the recursive spirals of Hanne Darboven or the trance-state potential of counting itself.
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