Guitarist Olivier Dumont and percussionist Rodolphe Loubati�re revel in their universe, rarely calling out what the audience should focus on and hardly giving a map to follow; they gently coax their sounds and allow them to dictate in the way that wind chimes figure out what to play, so to speak. Conveniently, John Cage offers a more enlightening deduction of this ethos:

"When I hear what we call music, it seems to me that someone is talking. And talking about his feelings, or about his ideas of relationships. But when I hear traffic, the sound of traffic � here on Sixth Avenue, for instance � I don't have the feeling that anyone is talking. I have the feeling that sound is acting."

Concerning Nervure, Dumont and Loubati�re mediate natural ambience that happens when you plug in and raise your arms to play, and then several notches before what 90% of humanity expects of a guitar and drum combo (that includes jazz fans). The sonic world ranges from barely registered as humanly manipulated to brief rhythmic alignments (think about the difference between leaves blowing outside your window and a critter rousing them with a purpose � am I the only one who fixates on this at 4:00 am?), spates of nimble ferocity and murky nebulae, all encircled with pensive pauses. The eighteen-minute opener, "petiole", commences with a gentle scrape and whisper of sticks radiating the diameter of a drum head (literally resembling pencils sketching out a blueprint). Within moments, Dumont and Loubati�re interject a torrential inventory role call: squeaking feedback, staccato metallic clinks, granular drum rolls, shrill whistles. Soon the scene is affected by a hypnotic bout of sustained bass drum rumble (via rubber balls attached to kebab skewers) whose vibrations jangle Dumont's accoutrement like a plane, flying too low, rattling the windows; Dumont answers with his penchant for throttled strings, aural depth via abrupt tone pot adjustments and use of pickups as amplification for a host of who-knows-which objects. After a passage of independence, the duo comes together in a mix of bowed cymbal and "slide guitar", creating a phasing wall of woozy pitches before Dumont slides out with a haunting echo that might be coming from the next room. A new color � a high-pitched buzz � unexpectedly elides the halcyon and begins a wind-up of thumps and menacing gurgles framed around Dumont's single isolated one-note twang; Dumont and Loubati�re are as proficient at squeezing their ensemble for last drops as holding back surprises to spring at almost incidental markers � such as the gong and bowls Loubati�re saves for 42 minutes into the album.

Some refer to spaces in-between as gaps, interludes, or ruts, implying a sense of absence or inferior motes that play a role of connecting A and B. Applying this limited view to music, you're going to miss out on a lot of fascinating stuff. For example, which tones exist between C and C#? Is bumping your instrument on the wall or a feature of the recording? From silence to locking groove and melody, there exist myriad interesting directions, and the roots and branches in there go on forever. In other words, the interstice betwixt two fence posts is where the action is � and that's where Dumont and Loubati�re excel.