Kjell Bjørgeengen, visual artist and producer of this epic set, describes enough still not to know as “a place where things start to fall apart”. His summation is spot on. It's as if the two musicians here were busy breaching the very gateways of silence, atomising parades of austere passages into a series of ‘broken moments’. In Tilbury's case this means scattering his spare, lambent Feldman-esque tones, colouring the margins where Rowe's bursts of radio static seemingly cohere and then curdle into blankets of infinite hiss or blossom into disquieting Borgesian broadcasts. It's difficult to decide whether the frameworks of stillness are being adorned or adulterated (“to what purpose, disturbing the dust on a bowl of rose-leaves…?”). Pauses between events become increasingly protracted so that the presence of the former AMM associates is barely felt. The wounding shape of Doris Salcedo's Shibboleth manifests itself, a fissure slicing through cavernous halls of artistic endeavour, an aesthetic absence of the barest magnitude.