Supersedure 2

The long-awaited but nonetheless unexpected sequel to one of the most widely beloved documents of improvised music is finally here in the form of Supersédure 2, the first material from field recordist Éric La Casa and percussionist Seijiro Murayama since the original Supersedure in 2009 (I’m not sure of the significance of the presence/lack of the accented E, if any). The two seasoned sound artists’ collaborative formula remains largely the same for this formidable follow-up, though the sonic milieus captured, transformed, and occupied seem to lean more toward interiors than exteriors. Fourteen years is a long time, but La Casa looks even further back in time to assemble the arsenal of recordings he wields, with some of them being unearthed from as early as 2003. Recurring elements include echoing footsteps, digital appliance tones (barcode-scanner chirps, forklift backup beeps, mouse clicks), and more. Murayama is as sparing and precise as ever in his contributions, often deliberately mimicking the metronomic intervals of the aforementioned motifs. The first section of Part I is an immediate and representative introduction or (re-introduction for those already familiar) to the duo’s dynamic, with precise snare cracks cutting through and building tension between intermittent unfoldings of industrial environments like auditory pop-up pages, while the third reverses spatial trajectory to transform wide-open warehouse spaces into intimate tabletop operations, helped along by muted stick rolls. Yes, the overall focus is definitely on indoor dramas, but Supersédure 2‘s most affecting moment occurs at the end of Part II when the action abruptly moves outside, concluding the suite with a birdsong/snare duet that I can’t stop thinking about. Even after several listens I’m still extremely excited about—and grateful for—this wonderful release.
Jack Davidson, Noise not Music,

Éric La Casa + Seijiro Murayama’s Supers​é​dure 2 stands out among the many wonderful field recording albums this year because of its interrogation of our perception of sound. The two artists stitch together recordings from across 20 years and regularly toy with distance. This may be literal—as in the amount of space between a recording device and the actual sound created—or in terms of a particular noise and our ability to identify it. The result is something exceedingly participatory, where we’re attuned to individual pieces becoming foregrounded and backgrounded, of sounds moving from close-miked to reverberatingly distant, of the impact that room tone has on the overarching atmosphere, of a consideration for when something enters the realm of the acousmatic. Sonically, it has a palette that recalls Devin DiSanto and Nick Hoffman’s Three Exercises, but this is a less inquisitive affair: there’s no puzzle I feel compelled to solve, which means I’m left to revel in the peculiarity of sound itself. —
Joshua Minsoo Kim, Toneglow, 10 favorite albums 2023,