Aidan Baker�s one of the hardest working guys in experimental music. Recording under his proper surname, in addition to numerous releases as Arc and Nadja, he�s made a career removing the guitar out of its rock straitjacket and injecting it into any of a few differing contexts: drone, noise, atmospherica, avant ambience. Hecker�s done some yeoman work in the same areas, though the tool of his trade has preferred laptop to six-strings�2006�s widely-hailed Harmony in Ultraviolet, however, returned to the source, a vast opaque sheen of processed guitar wrapped in gauzy, shimmery aftereffects, like looking at life through a cotton veil, the lenses of your eyes Vaseline-smeared.

As Fantasma Parastasie opens, the duo�s abrasive counterpunches threaten nothing but sheer aural miasma, but as the record and its 66 tracks progress (though they�re really only index points in a seamless 7-part suite), levity eventually arises in tiny, plaintive skeins of sparkles and emotive notes. However, �The Skeleton Dance� soon reclaims its corrosive birthright and little time ensues for you to catch your breath, Baker and Hecker ripping off screaming, straining bursts of feedback that wouldn�t be out of place on a Mego or John Weise recording. Plenty of evidence exists throughout this epic saga that suggests the artists enjoy painting figuratively idyllic landscapes, but apparently yin cannot survive without yang�the reincarnated demons and flying skulls adorning the digipak�s cover attest that within this aural s�ance, spirits, having flown, soon attack, civilizations topple, fear grips the land. Is this a well-organized noise then, or does the listener just succumb to yet another in a series of painful assaults on the inner ear? Difficult to assess � most of this record leans towards realms apocalyptic and sensational rather than illusionary, making it logical to assume that Mssrs. Baker and Hecker are content with just tearing their environments to shreds. Their guitars are caught in an endless state of primitive flux, all context jackknifed, subtle as a flying mallet. Time to turn down the amps, boys; after all, a little quiet music never hurt anyone.