eople like Julien Ottavi and Dion Workman just drive me up the tallest tree with jealousy. Ottavi was once in Formanex, a formidable electro acoustic quartet specializing in the graphic notations of Cardew, Wolff, et al. He now runs Apo33, a collective of experimental musicians brought together under a loosely Situationist rubric to travel the world and raise very smart hell. Workman (with Rosy Parlane) was a founding member of Kiwi improvisers Thela, and now resides in New York, running what appears, by all accounts, to be a label—sigma editions—while scribing for local art-theory rags about free music and the political power of Giving It All Away.

Living vicariously through dorky academics is my own problem, and it leaves aside the fantastic pedigrees, solo and grouped, that these two have put together over the years. Workman, in certain circles, is best known for his 2003 work, Ching, winner of the Max Brand prize, and a truly harrowing bit of electronic insecticide. Formanex's 2001 recording of Cardew's "Treatise" ranks up there with some of the best interpretations of that work, and brings the piece to the brink in ways you wouldn't think possible.

As such, misenlian, lowercase title aside, brings with it much baggage, and much expectation. The principals have an idea to invade our space and take us on a journey. And those of us who have been on this journey know full well where it's going. At the beginning, there is silence, and we can hope for the hefty, skittering, mini-epic build of Ching, or at least a towering cluster-fuck in the vein of Francisco Lopez. We continue through cricket-static chirps and shortwave-a-likes, through Workman's patented crystalline high-end chirps, and through a slow, almost-imperceptible build. There are occasional outbursts of frequency that are possibly a little too nice, and sine tones precisely in the Toshi Nakamura/Sachiko M wheelhouse.

And, sure enough, halfway through, the static tones begin pulsating, that crystalline high-end chirping gets louder, and a harsh crunch slides right into the middle. The whole business gloms like moss to a rock, carries on for a few minutes, then descends into a distorto-breakdown that bears a striking resemblance to the first few seconds of the latest Out Hud album. Yes, really. And then we're right back where we started, with a low-end throb and pittering rhythmic elements dropped in, for shits. This actually begins to redeem the previous 25 minutes, as the duo hold this steady for most of the remainder, keeping a balled-up tension that would stay with you if misenlian didn't just fade out weakly.

I know I'm not getting jaded of electronic or electro-acoustic improv; there have been too many exemplary, forward-looking records recently for that to be true—just check any Erstlive release—but these two veritable young turks of the game are latching onto the only things that constitute formula in this realm.