Only a clarinet sings – minimal, quivering, wavering. Breathing mad notes in the cracks between notes, weaving a dazed, fuzzy kind of magic. The latest recordings by Museum of No Art are tripping – floating in suspense, somewhere out in the irrational corners of the world inhabited by the haunted elegance of Ben Bertrand or Bernhard Herrmann. But still, entirely her own – a quiet revolt of classical clichés in search of a new dawn for lunatic woodwinds. She sings through her instrument and it sings to her. It carries her, and she lets it. A distinctive timbre tumbling through tonal fog. Four freely formed compositions for dispari. One petite and tempting. Two mid-length wanderers – teetering, wobbling. And one epic piercer. All drifting in inspiring airs. Ephemeral, nebulous, fragile, like the desolate candy snowman, melting on a warm tongue, threatened with complete dissolution. Fleeting like a stolen glimpse of the intimate curve of an anonymous stranger’s neck. ML