The organ, the tremolo, the whitegreypink noise—the bible of murder spa is laid out. There is a bit of the ruins porn you hear in Basinski, the disembodied piano, and some of the larger glitching and looping you hear in other early aughts electronic music. The churchy sustain of Kali Malone and Kara-Lis Coverdale is in here, too, the sense of  the secular and sacred crunched together into a sous vide. It’s sad, it’s noisy, it’s gentle, it’s whatever. This is a languorous restock of the cooling system on a Friday hangover from Sunday’s corporate merger.