ilm theorist Christian Metz proclaimed some four decades ago that “every film is a fiction film.” Though Metz was concerned with the “impression of reality” specific to cinema, his aphorism might just as easily be applied to contemporary music; the relationship between fiction and non-fiction film is not so different than the so-called “tension” between electronic and organic music. The disparity between these seemingly contradictory realms is often overstated by critics—conflict, of course, making for more compelling writing than harmony. It’s certainly an apt analogy when discussing Mitchell Akiyama’s latest, small explosions that are yours to keep, considering the classical/jazz-composer-meets-schizophrenic-computer nature of his music. Akiyama’s recent work has moved into multimedia performances featuring his own videos, as well as CD-ROMs and graphic design (his day job). Although contrasting methods of expression are obviously important to this kind of output, focusing solely on their differences misses the point.

These references to visuals are somewhat unfortunate, in that they might make sections of small explosions feel incomplete, like the visuals are necessary to fully enjoy what Akiyama’s going for in terms of creating an atmosphere or even evoking emotion. However, the album remains listenable the way a Morricone soundtrack like L’Uccello Dalle Piume Di Cristallo is, shifting between abstract soundscapes and more-or-less straightforward instrumental passages. Imagine if Morricone were to score an avant-garde film, or more appropriately, a video installation; his voluminous oeuvre is as much of a reference point as Steve Reich and Terry Riley. Likewise Markus Popp and Charles Mingus, whose bursts of Spanish guitar on The Black Saint and the Sinner Lady have much the same relation to the rest of that album as the handclaps on small explosions’ “But Promise Me” do to Akiyama’s plentiful digital glitches—apparently mismatched sounds that reveal themselves to be wonderfully complementary.

As with Akiyama’s multimedia work, the desired effect is synthesis through (or despite) seemingly incongruous source material. Those playfully syncopated handclaps augment an urgent detective drama theme as played through a TV with maliciously bad reception; although they seem to mock the implied seriousness of the rest of the song, they also drive it forward. “Full Then Felt” gently grafts Aphex Twin’s “Bucephalus Bouncing Ball” onto a plaintive Morricone spaghetti-Western moment before wandering off into a maze of looped strings and glitches, and the gradually emerging hiss and error of the title track pull and tear at its propulsive foundation.

Akiyama’s subtle use of field recordings proves even more interesting. The recorded bird chirps of “Through Fall and Flicker” make sense amidst erratic scrapings and floating clusters of tones that are bird-like themselves. “Suggestions For Walking Alone” recreates a dream-like afternoon of sitting around during a thunderstorm, listening to music in someone’s apartment; half-heard voices, gradually building rumbles and faint sirens hang amidst arrhythmic digital ticks and meandering piano tones. These subtle touches cloud the border between music and surrounding environment—for instance, I missed the underlying typewriter clatter on opener “Strategies for Combatting Invisibility” because of the light rain falling outside my living room window and the relatively low volume at which I was listening, but this revealed an interesting analogy between the two sounds when using headphones later. Also during that second listen, I found myself constantly removing my headphones to see if my girlfriend was talking on the phone in the other room. Such carefully cultivated instability requires a certain finesse and sense of balance that reaches beyond music itself without compromising it in any way.

small explosions isn’t perfect; “Your Distance Kept” suffers from an excess of Akiyama’s collage sensibility, and several tracks seem to end in a manner that suggests they were abandoned rather than completely finished, but the sheer volume of ideas and directions explored imply a rough-edged quality that contributes to the album’s overall aesthetic. An excess of polish would remove, rather than incorporate, what we might call the “non-fiction” elements of Akiyama’s compositions and would ultimately harm their overall effect.

I don’t think Akiyama is too focused on what I’ve been treating like a thesis, which is precisely what is admirable about small explosions. You can talk about the “electronic deconstructions of traditional instrumental music,” which in your fancy Official Schematic of All Music are “located in the interstices of classical, electronic composition, and post-rock,” and you’d be right (you’d also be quoting Sub Rosa’s ad copy), or you can sit back and let Akiyama take you on a Brakhage-like journey through elements at once familiar and uncannily not so, leaving you slightly breathless at what just transpired. The availability of satisfaction on both academic and instinctual levels, at varying degrees of attention and comprehension, make small explosions worth checking out.