This shared (non-collaborative) recording by Creshevsky and Al Margolis (aka, the indomitable If, Bwana) is based on a concept called hyperrealism, which is defined in the liner notes as "an electroacoustic musical language constructed from sounds that are recognizable parts of our shared environment, handled in ways that are exaggerated or excessive." Whew. Translation: Creshevsky and the indomitable Al Margolis (aka If, Bwana) essentially obliterate sounds so as to birth something other.

Depending on where you're sitting in the stereo field, figuratively and literally, determines the aural outcome, and whether or not these pieces are "successful" in their ambitions remains a subjective notion at best, regardless of each musician's sterling pedigree. Creshevsky's the classically-trained of the two, Margolis the maverick; both seem able to leap tall noises in a single bound, but it seems the main Bwana-man's far more capable of realizing these gnarly hyperreal theories than his colleague. Creshevsky's pieces valiantly work from classical modes and extrapolate from there: "Mari Kimura Redux" makes the most out of a mess of strangulated strings, molesting Tchaikovsky in the process, but though prickly in execution it might be, it's hardly engaging listening. "Shadow of a Doubt" plunders baroque musics, regal waltzes, and orchestral crescendos across its splice-and-dice calligraphy, yet for all the technical virtuosity there's a coldly ineffectual feel to its stately ergonomics. "Intrada", with its clipped violins and vocal hiccups, conjures some obscene meeting ground between Phil Minton and Lionel Marchetti, a garrulous exercise in flip acousmatica that would even have pundits leering in disdain.

If, Bwana's modulations make for a far more persuasive arguments of their legitimacy. Margolis' wit parries tit-for-tat with his compositional acumen; he's a long-standing, card-carrying member of the stalwart U.S. experimentalist underground, and it shows in the way he can take what seems to be the simplest ingredients and do devilish things to them in the process. "Xyloxings" could almost pass for a very slow, very mutative Phill Niblockian drone mass, a suite of tempered bells and isolationist tones patterned by a chanteuse's irregular (and chilling) wordless garglings. "Scraping Scrafide" recalls nothing less than Nurse with Wound's archetypal environments: strange goings-on like restless ghosts fumbling about an attic while ancient, disused synths chatter about in abject whimsy. "Cicada #4: Version Barnard" blurs what sounds like spooky horn contrails back into those arcing chants, buttressed by suppurating electronics that alternately hiss, spit and spurt. Weirdness indeed, the stuff of fever dreams, more like magic realism than anything hyper.