Marijn

The Highly pleasing debut album by Dutch musician Rutger Zuydervelt is eminiscent of Willian Basinski and Harold Budd among others, but has plenty of twists and turns of it's own. 'Kreukeltape' is particulalrly Basinski-esque, but it's as if the music has been amplified and subjected to a still more extreme aging process. Drifting like an electronic Marie Celeste, it manages to convey a substantial sense of absence. Even the minimal piano interventions seem excessive and garrulous, such is the mood Zuydervelt creates here. 

　　On 'Somerset', one imagines a rusty foghorn retrieved from a dead sea and laid to rest with a simple keyboard motif. 

　　'Wolkenkrabber' hovers and sustains over ten minutes, it's ashen bank of cloud broken only by the odd ripple of static and occasional lightning flash. On 'J'Espere Ca', flurries of piano and flotsam remnants of washed up rock guitar merge, stis and work up into a Fennesz-like typhoon of sirty grain. 

　　Over 'Lawine''s 20 minutes, uneasy serenity filings which heave in and obliterate the piece like a plague of ravenous locusts. 'Lawine' showcases the singular talent of Rutger Zuydervelt, his ability to morph from near-absolute sonic stilness to noise jams with slow, barely descernible stealth.