As I walk through the room two Victorian dresses ladies look in my direction and start whispering between each other. I don’t think there is much good on their minds as I notice the deformed almost claw-like hands. Nothing but terrible deformities on arms and hands, as the girls are beautiful in their dresses. I pick up a book, thin in its shape nevertheless important by content. Two stories about doors, lost doors, hidden doors. The characters dance in front of my eyes. I can’t concentrate on the contents. The book falls to the floor as I penetrate the room even further.

A door opens in front of me. A hidden door I wonder as I step over the floor of sound. A lengthy drone keeps my footsteps find firm ground each time I take a step. Far away in the distance I hear music. Cheerful music like a carnival far away in a town somewhere. Or maybe the Victorian ladies found an orchestra willing to play for them. It sounds cheerful, cheerful but always on a distance. I start walking in the direction of the music but it’s never getting any closer. I find nothing except another door.

Again I find myself in a room. It’s filled from top to bottom with clocks, a room obsessed with time. The time it takes to walk through, the time to stand still. The ticking of the clocks fills the space and I start thinking they are communicating with each other. Talking about me on a way I can’t understand. A dismal squeaking sound travels from on side to the other and back again as the endless ticking continues. As I’m standing there it frightens me and I start running. I race through the room followed by the ticking of the clocks and their communication.

Suddenly I fall through the next door. Yet again an open space in front of me. It’s a room for moths. An endless supply of moths, moths are covering the walls, the ceiling and some even crawl over the floor. There wings rustle and with a load flapping sound they take to the air. I walk gently through the room. Careful setting my feet on the ground so I don’t step on a moth. The sound of the moths comforts me; their rustle and flapping give me a warm feeling. I proceed into the room, penetrating the space with my presence. Without warning the moths catch fire. Flames are everywhere as the scorched remains drift down. More and more moths catch fire. In panic the fly everywhere to get away from the fire. But it is all in vein, the flames devourer as the ashes fall on my head and body. My tears mix with the ashes leaving stripes of black on my cheeks. The tears and ashes start making their own sound. The sound of a new room, a new door.

The missing Ensemble are responsible of these eerie thoughts as I listen to their album “Hidden Doors” A beautiful album seen from all perspectives, the cover with a painting of Ray Ceasar. The small book with two stories tucked inside and especially the music of The Missing Ensemble. This is something for every fan of drones, microsounds en soundscapes. It’s really beautiful enough to bring tears to your eyes.