Cloaked behind speakers stand (and sit) Rhodri Davies (harp, preparations), Mark Wastell (violin, cello, preparations, amplified textures) and Matt Davis (trumpet, electronics, processing), gently reaching through a veil with meager movements and embracing ample silence. A curious affair, Done is four situations where the ultimate active work is mental, Broken Consort deciding how to make the most impact with minimal means.

"Rhodri Davies Solo", the opener, is the more "musical" and relatively busiest of the album. Davies pricks harmonics, rapidly strums isolated chords and palm mutes attacks that leave a haze of reverb. For the latter half of this prelude, he interjects low-end sympathetic open strings that resonate as deep and cavernous, often rattling with an enormous twang.

The mood of the 26-minute "Davis/Davies/Wastell Trio" is defined by macro disconnection: stark breathy rumbles, gurgles, acoustic oscillations (stuff spinning around inside other stuff), stunted dog whistle level slices of feedback and string bows, flutter tongue and jangling metallic objects largely just "happen" without really latching on to what the other guy is doing. Or so it seems; with this much quiet, you could proffer the old saying "it's what they're not doing..." and think of the negative space as the mortar.

For being a violinist/cellist and trumpeter, "Davis/Wastell Duo" features about twenty seconds of anything resembling a trumpet and a small handful of pizzicato and plucks from Wastell during this eighteen minutes. Continuing in line with the previous works, the two offer large, often literal brush strokes and dots of information similar to the approach of sumi painters: simple gestures with rich details that sound until the ink runs out (so to speak). Tinkling pan-tonal melodies flit in and out with Gagaku bamboo flute mystique; things are drug-across with different materials; percussive snaps twice jolt you from a trance as they burst like firecrackers; in-between, you can actually hear a pin � and audience programs � drop.

On the untitled finale, the introduction conjures images of a crackling fire (which at least one member of the group is certainly comfortable with) that raises to a marginal roar. Davies attacks with bows to create raspy, sinister drone work that gives birth to piercing sine waves and a mechanical device that fidgets and squeaks against someone's instruments (Strings? Mouth piece?) After a decent pause, the trio repeats this order of events and builds to a mountain of sub-bass and scratchy grit.

Restraint is a curious thing, particularly by objects and performers of objects with myriad maximal potential and possibilities. Like a tiger playing with a mouse, Broken Consort's arsenal could tear the roof off the village. But the members prefer to hold back, making the tension of Done electric, hypnotic and palpable.