Toshimaru Nakamura operates as his central soundmaker�or perhaps "instrument" is truly a more applicable description�the no-input mixing board, wherein the machine's patch cords are fed into their opposite ports, the artist needling about with the resultant feedback. Having utilized this particular device on countless recordings over the last decade or so, Nakamura's pretty much master of his domain by now�unlike Merzbow, who creates his thorny racket via more traditional synth (now laptop) set-ups, Toshi obtains a lot of mileage from so minimal a contrivance. The whole enterprise is pretty remarkable in its simplicity, not to mention its actual execution.

Trouble is, the mixing board's simple aesthetic is its inherent downfall. Nakamura's made the box perform some reasonably high-wire acrobatics across the years, but the results have been more persuasive when in the company of a larger group of sympathetic artists. On Ij, working in tandem with micro-hornist Lucio Capece (whose credited preparations seem to be doing little more than manipulating his wind instruments' mouthpieces or tweaking out the occasional brap), Nakamura makes his usual noise, from hesistant balloon-squeaks and tight explosive bursts of static to full-on causal abrasion, yet little of it gels into anything resembling a cohesive whole. Capece's ultra-minimal performance feels like simple window-dressing; he appears to be at odds with Nakamura's stormy bluster, though the sounds he teases from his sax and clarinet strangely ape the mixing board's own tonal colors. Over the course of two lengthy improvisations, the players jostle for position, ekeing out their own peculiarly damaged syntax. The mixing board blows high-pitched whistles, starched tones and looped disc skips to something of monotonous effect; perhaps if Capece were a better foil Nakamura might be inclined to seek out new directions for his singular leitmotif. As is, Ij smells too much like preen spirit.