Anyone taken with the idea of musical psycho-geography, that the physical location songs are created an unconsciously influences the results, should fill their boots with The Berg Sans Nipple's third album. Recorded over year on two separate continents, beats and ideas pinged back and forth between Paris and Omaha, Nebraska, Build With Erosion is a stateless mass of dislocated, placeless and stuttering sounds, collages of weird noises stacked on top of one another, writhing with rhythm. Untethered vocals appear roughly chopped over most of the songs, like they got fractured down a long distance phone line. It's also a total joy to hear: all the disparate components somehow assembled into avant-pop movers, like confetti you can dance to.

It's the hard, propulsive percussion that's the twisted glue here: both halves of the duo are drummers, but Build With Erosion pathologically avoids 4/4 convention, instead splurging on everything from hard-slapped jazz beats to minimal, almost hip hop looseness. 'Change The Shape' wades in first, drums twitching harshly, agitated vocals chanted and distorted on random whims. It's schizoid and white-funky, grooveless but flying with sharp corners. 'Built With Erosion' packs more in, with piano lines rippling in from nowhere and dusty, farting synth pulses, its separate sections bolted together but still junk shop cool. Animal Collective and !!! play similar weirdo dance/not dance tricks but Berg offer a surrealist collage-based approach, more awkward but finally triumphant in the edit suite.

Though in a million pieces, 'Build With Erosion' hides a handful of superbly melodic moments. 'There Is No Peak' begins slowly creeping, shuffling under rundown videogame noises and vocals distressed to the point where they sound like whole syllables have been removed by scalpel. Drums gradually batter their way forward though, ever louder like waves on the tide, before a brilliantly ersatz brass line twists gloriously into view, in a perfect pop moment. Similar tunefulness runs through the fractured LCD throb of 'Convert The Measurement' and 'Weatherman', which resembles a rambling hepcat cut up and looped madly. Glowing lullaby 'Pink Rays Sugar' twinkles and coos at the album's end, disorientating and pretty, quiet balm in sugary keyboard form.

Sometimes you hear distant echoes of potential influences: Brian Eno, Congotronics, dub reggae's expansiveness. But everything on 'Build With Erosion' feels coagulated into a single, crunchy knot of playful experimentalism. It's scrappy and beautiful, and you'll look nuts dancing to it.

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