On sigla, sone, scattered among the otherwise unrecognizable sounds of field recordings, is that much-maligned of all source materials: the human voice. Infant’s latest release is nothing if not a study in when, and how, to insert the immediately familiar within a border tapestry of that which is abstract or foreign or both. Over 9 tracks, sigla, sone curries restraint, with carefully selected snippets thrown into a larger pot, organic and thoroughly alive. Within the genre of field recordings/ambient synthesis, the true in one’s listeners can be a slippery, and like any good journey (Infant’s sources are clearly close to home), we are moving, somewhere, whether we want to or not. 

 

“Pebble” is the standout cut, the one to which it feels the preceding tracks have been moving. Why, exactly, the field recording/ambient subset is so enamored with lo-fidelity is anyone’s guess, really, though one potential advantage the technique has, I guess, is its ability to conjure the flawed work of memory. Here is the contradiction at the heart of sigla, sone, which attempts to balance between the messiness of the past with the cloyingly personal. The warbly flutter of tape is close at hand, and the accumulating sense that all of this is somehow important is apparent, though in what way? By “Well’, the album’s final track, there is no more hiding – dissemblance be damned! – as the human voice is now front and center, a welcome reprieve for some, while for others, a prison house.   

 

Within the field recordings genre, with its purposeful eschewal of rhythm and beat, there is surprisingly little that surprises on sigla, sone, and that must be intentional. Infant’s craftsmanship is unmistakable, even if the personal connection to source and sound is anything but.