Pitchfork

Berliner Andrew Pekler (aka the Sad Rockets) might exhibit mastery over every instrument in a well-stocked conservatory, but his weapon of choice is the analog four-track recorder. It's in the rarefied purity of the populist four-track that Pekler renders his brilliance and captures it for both posterity and our listening enjoyment.

But on the evidence of the resulting soundscape alone, you'd never guess it. It's a musical stew of jazz, funk, trip-hop, ballady acoustics, dub, R&B, effects, and found sounds perfectly seasoned and ladled out in dollops of sometimes-spacy, but always masterful, servings. The only thing missing-- but not missed-- are the vocals, since all thirteen tracks are instrumental. The vocals, and maybe the soul.

You leave the listening experience impressed as hell at the skill on gaudy display, but with the uneasy feeling that under all that opulence lies something cold and sinisterly robotic. Just as no one gave Lt. Commander Data the benefit of the doubt for playing a flawless violin concerto in a famous episode of "Star Trek: The Next Generation" because he was, well, an inhuman android , Pekler also fails to benefit from his clinician's precision. It's not that the music has an artificial electronic bias-- Pekler makes good on his claim to be analogcentric-- but it's just too-perfectly calculated. You go through Transition hoping for a sign of fallibility. A note bent too far, an endearing misstep, or an amateurish flub would be welcome. They never come, though.

Each song revels in its own unique identity. "Boogie Electric" and "Twenty-Six" share jazz rhythms and experimental stylings, but ramble indulgently, unchecked and unrestrained. "Beautifull Love" [sic] is a noir stroll through the alleyways and footpaths of space-jazz. Drums supersaturated with distortion elevate "Heavy Meta" to a adrenal funk hymn that features a timeless, rump-shaking beat. It's good, of course, but familiar in a vague kind of way.

Where Transition overachieves, though, is on the quieter numbers. The resigned "Winter's Over" is a meditation in serenity, with acoustic guitar, bongos and light, breezy organ riffs that build into a waterfall of sound. The beautiful "Wrongs of Fall" flaunts tender synth interspersed with heavy 'hop interruptions that knock the unsuspecting listener off guard. And "Twenty-Seven" closes out the album in a soft focus that showcases some Knopfler-esque understated classic guitar soloing.

After an embarrassment of quality, one begins to suspect that the real musical craftsmen are the ones who do more with less. From Bob Pollard to Jeff Mangum, people find ways to push that cheap, pawn-shop Tascam far beyond the capabilities ever dreamed of by the manufacturers, designers, and inventors. Pekler certainly reaffirms that a piece of recording equipment has boundless potential in the right hands. But in addition to exacerbating the strengths, a four-track also does an effective job of hiding the flaws of an artist. The biggest problem with Pekler is he has none to conceal.