evin Novak, the man behind T.E.F., is a veteran noisemaker from Texas, and on this new limited edition CD-R release, he weighs in with just under a half hour of full throttle noise, seemingly chaotic, but anchored by a very strong sense that Novak is in complete control of this barrage on the senses. “Scind” is a startling opener, a disorienting attack of scraping, glitch-impaired machinic screams. Demonic howls and thunderclaps combine into a full-bore assault, as distorted and amped-up percussive sounds clatter in the background like an industrial drum machine malfunctioning. The mix constantly switches from side to side, suddenly stopping as new and equally crushing noises are unleashed. There are momentary pauses in here, breaks of negative space that only make the saturated stereo field of the rest of the track even more overbearing. Even though this is full speed ahead vicious noise, totally blistering and loud, it never seems gratuitous; there’s even a sense of playfulness, as Novak carefully arranges this battery of noises into a gripping and varied whole.

The rest of the album is of similarly high quality. “Nnul” finds Novak in (just slightly) more restrained territory, juxtaposing outbreaks of frantic bashing against a gloomy, foreboding backdrop of static and wavering low-frequency drones—once again, the presence of the negative space, this time in much more substantial form, provides a contrast and a context for the more energetic and noisy parts. “Urnd” is like a strangled scream from the depths of T.E.F.’s electronics rig, a steady stream of glistening glitchy noise seeming to hold back whatever dark forces are lurking underneath; it sounds like there could’ve once been a voice somewhere under there, but it’s hard to tell.

For whatever reason, T.E.F.’s noise seems to contain far more than its surface brutality and tension. There’s a true emotionality in this music that’s lacking in all but the best noise practitioners, an ability to infuse chaos with pathos and passion. Perhaps it’s the continual hints of non-noise sources—voice, drums, the faint glimmer of glossy melodicism briefly revealed on “Broegt”—that continually surface within this noise. It’s as though Novak is attempting to cover over the signs of the “real” with his alienating noise, but he only partially succeeds, and more inviting passages keep peeking through. This connection is a source of both emotion and mystery on Corrugation, and the continuing desire to unlock the palpable unknowns within this noise keep the album exciting and affecting each time it's played. After the final drones and skipping-CD rhythms of “Ngate” have subsided into a loaded silence, Corrugation lingers on in the memory as far more than a simple accumulation of loud sounds and harsh transitions from grating to suspenseful. It’s a fascinating, compelling album, harsh but not necessarily angry (although it can be at times), overpowering but not sadistic.