Icarus is the misadventure of Ollie Bown and Sam Britton, following the fiddly twisted rhythm along a scratchy line; noise from black boxes through which only certain pieces of data may pass. This in turn feeds through boards and wires to become processed as musical, by default. In short, an effect similar to dropping ink into water is experienced aurally as a series of ineffable blips, interleaved within the sounds of the marketplace. With a bit of luck this should reconfigure musical industriality into a dadaist work of precision chaos, but a freak occurrence could equally spell disaster for us all. All Icarus can do is try to mediate the event; this is the true fate of the modern musician, sending his or her sound bouncing along wires until somewhere, at some unknown point, they crash headlong into context. It's like tapes and cars. It's like the junk equation. It's like the effect of indifference to sound, which is less than the difference in sound from in front or behind. The dissolution of noise clears way for a fragmented melody; a flux of harmony on a polymetric pulse. The rate of growth of data is the marker for an indifference to sound. Overwhelming are the demands on music: As yet more vibrations fall victim to the staccato bit-wise we say "let noises run amok."
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