Few bands seem as genuinely ambivalent toward their listeners as Excepter. Their aesthetic-- a sort of aboriginal futurism, where ceremonial rattles shake alongside misfiring machines-- involves each member improvising along esoterically personal paths. Everyone inhabits the solitary world of their little drum or shaker with catatonic intensity, and the music emerges in serendipitous exchanges between private black-outs. They don't mind trawling through tedium to get where they're going: Loops seem to be crafted by trial and error, until pockets of energy flare up in the deadening spaces. At their best, Excepter urge these spasms of life toward payoffs that feel all the more rewarding for their precariousness. But on , they smudge the line between letting the magic happen and just nodding out.