Ephemeral Beguilement. Teengirl Fantasy, Tracer.

A zany pop record bulging with unforgettable idiosyncrasies perhaps isn't what would've been expected of Logan Takahashi and Nick Weiss on sophomore effort Tracer although the follow-up to the glitchy bliss of 7AM proves a stirring exploration of the genre had R. Stevie Moore had his way. That is to say that were the bespectacled, perennially bedraggled lo-fi sorcerer rightfully sat atop his most probably grotty throne – or Barlow's piano stool – Teengirl Fantasy might harbour hopes of a crack at the charts. Lord, Logan, Nick and True Panther Sounds' head honcho Dean Bein all surely know that the pitch-shifting R'n'B grind to EFX could surely dislodge whichever grime-infused gunk is currently clogging the height of our noncore Top 40...

These lucid, dreamily watery pools of transient sonic ripple are doubtless at their most accessible when the duo operate abetted: say, the stilted rhythmics of Pyjama which have Noah Lennox' remarkably pronounced vocal ambiguities hemmed into their very essence, or Ina Cube's aqueous etherealities on Mist Of Time. Romanthony's highly evocative and equivalently simulated sweet nothings (they imbue Do It with vocal visuals almost) too pertain to a sugary pop synthesis although given that the track may as well be deemed postdated Discovery, his inclusion ought to go questioned with regard to the album's overall relevance. Something of a keyword within the context of the contemporary, it's one that's about as easy to achieve as longevity these days although in commingling past and present, Teengirl Fantasy forge future, evoking a palpably human emotivity from electronics almost exclusively. And never is this practice more acutely exercised than on Tracer's quite majestic centrepiece, End: the centripetal solenoid to this intricate matrix of richly textured, variegated sound it's a joyous amalgam of where music's been with the likes of Ludovico Einaudi and John Roberts, and where it could maybe one day go with the likes of John Talabot and Fuck Buttons manning the helm. Both stratospheric and experimental in general aesthetic, it's all sorts of superlative.

Thus Takahashi and Weiss work best tetra-handedly and here trace their own co-ordinal trajectory toward a quite stellar parallel: for were Fuck Buttons to trip up over their own technological Blanck magics and recline among the fiddly gadgetry, sourcing body warmth from synth for a protracted while they'd perhaps wind up creating stuff as tepidly inspiring as Inca. Elsewhere, the pairing become entangled in other stylistic specifics: the blithe, Brainfeeder-architected loungin' of Timeline; the starry, synthy rut to Orbit; the video game glistens of Vector Spray, a sort of reconstituted regurgitation of the End to precede it in tracklisted time. Then, like some ephemeral if momentarily beguiling mirage, Tracer evaporates into nothingness. More fantastical than any teen dream barring that of Baltimore.