Jilk’s Tetsuo II does not ease you in. It snaps on like a damaged screen, all signal and distortion, a memory running too fast to track. From the first moments, there is a sense that something unstable has been set loose, a current that refuses to sit still. But don’t think this is chaos for its own sake. Every burst of percussion, every smear of texture, every flicker of melody is placed with intent, even when it sounds like it is tearing itself apart.
The backbone here is rhythm, but not rhythm as comfort. The drums chatter, stutter, and surge in jagged clusters, never settling into anything predictable. They dart in and out of focus, sometimes almost overpowering the senses, sometimes vanishing entirely, leaving space for something softer to creep in. Beneath all of it, low end pressure tethers the album, a deep and steady presence that keeps the entire structure from spinning off into abstraction.
Tetsuo II hits hard because it expertly utilizes contrast like an instrument. Jilk sets fragile elements against mechanical force and lets them coexist without smoothing the edges. Soft electric piano tones drift through like half remembered fragments. Ambient pads stretch out in long, luminous layers. Then the drums return, sharp and insistent, cutting through everything. The push and pull never resolves. It just keeps evolving, track after track, as if the album is rewriting itself in real time.
There are moments where the record turns inward, and these are some of its strongest passages. A mournful piano line lingers longer than expected. Strings rise out of the haze, not polished or pristine, but worn, almost degraded, like they have been pulled from an old tape that has seen too many rewinds. These sections bring a human weight into the machinery, a reminder that beneath all the circuitry and motion, there is something personal driving it forward.
A strong cinematic thread runs deep throughout the album, but it never leans on easy imagery. Instead, it builds a world through sound alone. Glitch fragments flicker like broken light. Ambient layers expand until they almost dissolve into dull metallic finishes. Then everything contracts again, pulled tight by rhythm and bass. The pacing is deliberate, even when the surface suggests frenzy. Jilk floods the space when necessary, and strips it all back to the bone when needed.
Credit is due to Bricolage for giving this kind of work room to exist without compromise. Releases like this depend on a label willing to trust the artist’s vision, no matter how unconventional the path. Tetsuo II stands as a clear example of that trust paying off, presenting a fully realized statement that does not bend toward accessibility or expectation.
By the time the album closes, Tetsuo II has moved through intensity, restraint, and something close to reflection, without ever breaking its internal logic. The final stretch drifts into open space, leaving behind the dense rhythmic core in favor of atmosphere and tone. It does not resolve in a traditional sense. It simply dissipates, like a signal fading at the edge of reception.
This is a striking record. It is detailed, restless, and deeply immersive without relying on any familiar shortcuts. Jilk builds a language out of contrast and motion, then pushes it until it nearly collapses. Tetsuo II holds its shape with conviction, precise in construction and unafraid of abrasion, a complete statement built from its own internal logic.
Tetsuo II by Jilk releases on the 3rd of April 2026 on Bricolage (Glasgow)