Splash

"Splash" opens with the sound of water — not as ambient decoration but as the primary instrument, pitched and chopped and layered until droplets become melody and ripples become rhythm. Horikawa treats aquatic field recordings with the same precision a percussionist brings to a snare: every slap against a surface, every gurgle of movement carries rhythmic intent. The tempo is playful and nimble, lighter than "Wandering," carrying a kind of buoyant energy that mimics the unpredictability of water itself — a pattern emerges, breaks, reforms. Emotionally it evokes a specific childhood pleasure, the kind tied to rain puddles and running through sprinklers — unselfconscious joy filtered through an adult aesthetic sensibility that keeps it from feeling naive. There's a warmth to the production that contrasts with its experimental nature; for all its sonic ingenuity, the track never feels cold or academic. It belongs to the same world as Matmos or early Amon Tobin — musicians who found beauty in the sounds that surround us before we think to listen. This is music for bright mornings, for sitting near an open window when it's raining just enough to hear the street alive with sound.