There's an intense logic to Kaffe Matthews’ music, something which sets her apart from so many working in digital improv. It's not so cold as to be mathematical; rather, it’s somehow compassionate - remarkably human.

Last time Matthews was in New York, for a night at Brooklyn's Galapagos curated by Jon Abbey of Erstwhile records, she played pure laptop, but on this night she built at least some of her slowly unfolding soundscape of sounds and feedback from feedback generated by a theremin and a live microphone. It wasn't a discernable part of what she played (she said later that other rooms have fed back better for her), but the set didn’t seem to suffer as a result. She spent much of her time focused on a mixing board and, not incidentally, moving. If her peers are Toshio Nakamura or Ikue Mori or Thomas Lehn or Keith Rowe – any of which would be a hazy argument anyway - then she's the one among them doing dance music. Sounds don't just happen for a reason, they happen with causation and counterpoint. She suggests a system whereby one sound necessarily, and in a vague way predictably, dictates another.

Despite the lack-of-feedback problems, the sound worked beautifully in Phill Niblock's space, with Matthews in the center of the room and the small audience in a circle around her, the speakers set up around them. The pulses and tones varied in volume and placement, deeply sonorous and never louder than loud. It was occasionally met with sounds from the west Chinatown streets two floors below or, later, a toilet flushing: rare breaks in logic which only elicited smiles from the artist.

That also sets Matthews apart from the purveyors of formlessness. She clearly has fun performing. She smiles, her eyes open in wonder and close with the finding of aural peace. And the tip-off that what she's doing is dance music, no matter how far it might be from the world of Tommy Mottola, is that every so often, from behind her laptop, she does a little dance.