Luminous Foundation (live at The Barge Inn)

After a bit of pre-gig tinkering, the duo’s flashing sequencers and filtering trickery dispatch a light and frothy sizzle, a pointillist pulse full of rhythmically addictive fragments that before long was charging headlong into Schnitzler / Schulze territory as the downbeat sucks up the conversation behind us, re-texturising its creep into esoteric slivers. An atmosphere improved by the landlord’s decision to dim the lights, then dowse the performers with a psychedelic slip of oily light, Mark gives him a thumbs up of approval, his head nodding along to the sonics as some woman’s laugh wraps round the mingling curvatures.

A quarter of the way through the set, Neil seems to be having some tech problems which force a short interlude to re-wire his set-up, Mark’s iPad secures the audiences attention with a bit of Pink Floyd, and it’s not long until it’s seamlessly faded out in favour of the now improved set-up, as Neil’s vocoded keystrokes crawl the flickering incentives, graze a Kraftwerkian kick. The scenery ever-evolving, its dispersing shapes contracting into a nice shimmering drone, similar to the vibes of “Earthstar Transmitter” off the first The Other Without album, vibes that pluck you out of time, make you swoop in seated appreciation.

The frequencies start pushing close to uncomfortable, but see-saw a trance-like recovery as a man in front waves his arms around, dances around like it was ‘88, a little girl shadows him with a bit of expressive ballet, she plucks the artificial flowers from the tables, waves them into our faces as the textural landscape is elasticated in scaly ellipticals. Another member of the audience leans over to Neil, whispers something into his ear, to which he nods in agreement. “We could do this shit all day”, he laughs back, as splashy neon puddles fall through, chimera curve those bent-up triangles that jingle like a malfunctioning Christmas gift.

Captivating stuff, then an ominous pulse warbles out on chorusing repeats, their moth-filled blurs full of astral cuckoos and ghostly tapers which steal my heart completely. A beaty undercurrent eases in, threatens to fuck with the richness, but instead teases a languid lance of toppling tautness to the water-falling glycerine in a bewitching blend of shadowy shanks, grenaded in kindergarten milk-bottle clatter that I didn’t want to end.

Things slow for the next segment, a parade of mellow tempos full of the gurgling and glinting halflings, idylics mirror-warped in sub-marinal beeps and anemone caverns. A plumbed serpent of Harmonia-haunted palpitations that paprikas a glow-form the landlord leans into, congratulates Neil with a shaking of hands as the show shifts into silence and smiles all round.

Here’s hoping for more to come.