With Black Spur, listeners step straight into the volatile chemistry that ignites when two uncompromising sound artists—Atsuko Hatano and Joe Talia—share a common language of risk. The Zappak imprint here isn’t mere label support but a curatorial gesture—suggesting to those in the know that what follows will resist easy consumption, daring its audience to unlearn the distinctions between composition and improvisation. Cello and percussion function not as backdrop and ornament, but as shape-shifting protagonists. From their first exchange, Hatano’s tactile sense of resonance is locked in a restless dialogue with Talia’s precise yet volatile drumwork, and the pair never indulge in mere interplay—they interrogate and inhabit each other’s frequencies. What emerges is less a suite of tracks, more a set of sonic investigations: episodes that move from brooding atmosphere to ecstatic fracture, looping back with the persistence of unresolved emotions. Black Spur avoids any default gesture toward the ambient or the academic—it’s not content to be background or subject for analysis. 

The record weaves manipulated strings, blasted percussion, and grainy electronics into textures that can turn hostile at a moment’s notice, only to collapse into near-silence, breath held. This isn’t mere improvisation; it’s a performance of vulnerability, the kind that keeps both artists and listeners perched at the edge of stability. At its core is tension—the invitation to inhabit moments where harmony is not the goal, but incident. The duo’s approach is rigorous: small gestures turning seismic, delicate loops unraveling beneath sudden bursts of digital fragmentation. The mixing privileges neither player, creating a depth of field that demands patience, rewarding the careful observer with glinting sparks of lyricism amid low drones and percussive detritus.Talia’s background as both jazz drummer and avant-garde electronicist is on full display, folding polyrhythms into arrhythmic collapse; Hatano’s subtle bowing and extended techniques coax unsteady spirits from the cello’s dark heart. Together, they stretch time and texture, negotiating a shared space where clarity is always a little out of reach.

The production, equal parts forensic and fogbound, eschews resolution, instead letting tones bleed across the stereo field, small details creeping in at the margins on each repeat listen. Even the track titles exhibit restraint, more sketches than thesis, suggesting the album hopes to evade narrative closure, pointing instead to a fleeting, perpetual elsewhere.

Zappak’s packaging reinforces the sense of listening as encounter—minimal gestures, a refusal of excessive annotation, inviting the audience to complete the experience in their own psychic hinterlands. In a landscape saturated by instant answers and algorithmic curation, Black Spur insists on the value of the unexplained, handing listeners dense, unsettled beauty and asking: how much darkness will you tolerate for the chance of revelation?