When the musical output of the first decades of the 21st century are considered by future generations, I suspect that a huge amount will be written about our obsession with nostalgia. Just as we are doomed to repeat history (and to grow up into our parents) it seems that not even our voices, these days, really sound like us.

The fascination with what is classed among film-makers as 'found footage' spread into music a long time ago. Long before the Blair Witch Project, public information films, cartoons and nursery rhyme records produced in the mid-part of the last century were being mined for their throwaway worth as humorous asides - in this aspect they represented the musical equivalent of 'I Heart the Eighties' shows. They eventually became something of a cliché thanks to the likes of Lemon Jelly and DJ Yoda, who were themselves echoing hip-hop and dance acts of earlier years.

On the flip side of the coin is Hauntology. Notwithstanding excellent recent work by Nick Edwards and The Focus Group, who take the aesthetic of what might be termed classical Hauntology (crackly, abstract samples; phased constructions which avoid long, literal samples) it's tempting to lump a lot of very different material together.

Aidan Moffat's L. Pierre sound collages are becoming more uniform, and less interesting. January's The Island Come True was a very palatable, low-key montage of crackling snatches of children's voices that referenced JM Barrie and largely avoided any kind of tinkering with his selected materials. Surface Noise runs at EP length and introduces some sumptuously brittle vinyl noise, looped and cast as the slightest of rhythms. Each track is then loaded with rich, string-heavy bars of ominous or overly-syrupy romantic orchestration. The transition between tracks is much smoother than on previous efforts, and the effect is a bit like listening to a skipping Elgar compilation that has gathered a thick skin of dust.

Any narrative suggested by Moffat’s song titles on the other L. Pierre albums is discarded, with each piece instead given an obtuse 'Movement' number. Whereas composers of the milieu of Olafur Arnalds work in a very similar atmospheric pallet, and not to universally successful results, they at least ground their compositions with a depth of melody and, ironically, movement. The humour of other L. Pierre albums, which for a long time seemed like the bane of this kind of aesthetic, would be a blessing.

Surface Noise feels less like a dissection of the present through reference to the past (the staple of Hauntology or found footage) and more like a modern, mass-marketed Toby jug. Check out The Focus Group's Elektrik Karousel instead.