If you haven’t had the opportunity to witness a Crank Sturgeon performance, let us fill you in on what you’re missing: imagine a lanky, largely naked man, hooded in a sort of paper-mâché fish head. A tangled bevy of wires emits from this fish man to a carefully arranged assortment of toys, tin cans, plastic tubes, a well-seasoned guitar, and probably something you’d never expect could emit a sound. What comes next is an inexplicable blend of theatrical frenzied fervor and earnest, emotional noise-making. His is a truly unique voice, straddling the world of noise and performance art.

Malcolm Felder became acquainted with Crank Sturgeon and the man behind it, Matt Anderson, while studying art in Boston, and were Mission Hill roommates for several years. In the years to follow, Anderson would hone his Sturgeon persona, tour the world, and distribute countless recordings of his sonic cacophonies and bizarre rantings, eventually setting up camp in the wilds of Harpswell Maine. Meanwhile, Felder moved to New York and began Lineland, an outlet for his instrumental electronic compositions, releasing a couple albums on Audiodregs, and recently touring the states with Animal Hospital. His music takes the listener on a journey to undiscoverable lands filtered through the synth-driven prism of his overarching vision.

As a hand behind Mutable Sound, Felder says he really wanted to release a Lineland album that was appropriate for Mutable. “I wanted something that breaks from the peaceful, wordless universe of Lineland, something more meandering and experimental.” he says, “Collaborating with Matt seemed like an exciting way to do that. Though it seems our approach is at opposite ends of the spectrum, there is a humanness to his brand of noise that I love, and working with his material was immense fun.” The album they’ve crafted bridges noise, melody, spoken word, and electronica, creating a world of music that can be at times infectious, at times challenging, at times funny, and at times sublime. As Crank Sturgeon says:

Back along (a year or two ago), there was an original version of this recording: a funny little sneaky-do that snuck its way under the covers as a cassette called, “do that plural”. The little beastie was a nasty bite; an amalgamation of four-track folk slubber, rude poems, bonks in the night, and veritable murmurs of aqueducts. Around this time, I’d likewise shot Malcolm the disc of these recordings, not thinking, and perhaps unblinking of what potential rebirth could emerge. Little did I know what curves of the earth Malcolm would interpret and discover in the clumps and frottage of lo-fi bruit and mumbles; finely inking his lands with lines and striations that took a bumpy cassette and pushed it through an extruder pellet device, giving you this shrill dance of oscillation and mirth. It would be an understatement to just say that I’m in awe of his final meltdown. Instead of emailing me a mere salmon grin, Malcolm has undone all the doing, and it’s an occasion I do not mind whatsoever.