»OU« doesn’t leave much of the world to cling to. Lucrecia Dalt’s whisper, which on »Syzygy«, is still narrated in compact format, disappears after a few seconds, leaving us alone with darkness. A melody imperceptibly peels out of a simmering hum. Figures of primal, electronically pure tones grope their way out of the far corners, organise themselves into gracefully wired aggregates of electroacoustic dub, dance percussively. And as suddenly as their geometric forms emerge, they evaporate as if they had only been imagined, leaving behind bass waves with a rippled surface, the finest coloured noise, atonal floating particles. One eavesdrops on these reverberant spaces, listens closely to find out where they have gone, whether they will return. Which they never do. Neither the little duet of saxophone and clarinet nor that of bass guitar and whistling radiator help against the velvety coolness. Soon you settle into this chill, the exquisite frisson creeping up on you, and you bed yourself in the decomposition of swarming, drifting string loops. How do you explain the element that gives such presence to the eerie music that Lucrecia Dalt makes more eerie from record to record? Does it help if we know about the subterranean homes and workplaces from her biography, surrounded by dark, silent masses? Or about her customary habit of projecting her choice of film classics onto the wall without sound while producing her music, for inspiration purposes – this time, for instance, from Helke Sander or Werner Schroeter, who show her current home, Germany, as it no longer exists, ghostlike? Lucrecia Dalt may be content with continuing to assimilate with her technical apparatus: she has long since found her sound in it. It’s good to be able to depend on a label like the Berlin art project Care Of Editions, which patiently pauses its complete release schedule for two years until a work has genuinely matured.