Agnès Palier seems to find her sounds inside a small cave within herself, enervated emissions of breath and tiny vibrations of vocal cords coalescing into a highly personal fairyland – without the happy ending. Although a singer coming from a classical/jazz background, she uses her tools with a sort of repressed anxiety that sets the overall tone of Rocca close to those transcendental absurd theatre pieces which have the audience either scratching their heads or wailing in approval. Embryonic phonemes and timbral nuances coagulate according to their own strange morphology, at times sounding like a cassette player left on a towel at the beach with the batteries running out and the tape melting. Olivier Toulemonde’s discreet amplified objects are the perfect complement to Palier’s frail digressions, microsonic crumbles, and percussive clucks and snaps; the deconstructed machinery of his caressing whispers underlines Palier’s suffering postures, like those muffled earthquake thump-and-drag sounds made by children at play in the apartment above you. A valuable experience in uncomfortable pleasure and an inquisitive dismemberment of your listening attitudes.