Sometimes you just wonder if an artist hears say, Brian Eno or Steve Reich, and tells themselves, "Hey, I can do that!" Or, at least, it's something I wonder about. I envision the artist dusting off an out of tune piano that's been sulking in the corner of the apartment for years, like an unrepentant child. The artist sits down, uncovers the keys, strikes what he or she believes is C major. Taps a few other keys. Starts hitting at random, using all ten frantic fingers. Rushes off to grab the eight-track.

Admittedly, that's a bit unfair. At least in that I don't view Rob Ellis in this way. Sure, he's a self-taught pianist, this release is on the Leaf Label, and the title screams of adoration for the aforementioned composers; but he also has some experience under his belt-- namely as a drummer in PJ Harvey's early-90's band and for Laika, but also as the creative force behind Spleen, an experimental outfit that's included Harvey and John Parish. In short, Ellis is no hack.

Unfortunately, Music for the Home doesn't exactly uphold that statement. Described as "instrumental, mechanical & electronic music, 1994-1999," the album is too disjointed to feel like a cohesive composition. Generally, an album of avant-minimalism won't work if it's a collection of brief musical explorations created over the span of five years. Realizing this, Ellis has arranged some of them into dubious themes that do nothing to maintain the overarching concept suggested by the title. Others he has simply left on their own, despite their brevity.

The abstracted silverware on the album art also feels deceptive, as the album is comprised of more conventional instruments. The album opens with "Out of It," a fuzzy ambient wash that sounds like wind rushing through a throbbing industrial factory, and then dissolves into a bucolic acoustic guitar. Then begins "15/11/95 Six Pieces for Fake Instruments," leaping from a cautious glockenspiel to a haunting organ to electronic twinkling to spastic keyboard approximations of wind instruments to a piano out of a silent film from hell to chimes atop Mount Everest. Six tracks over the span of nine minutes, these sounds-- let alone the album's listeners-- are barely given room to breathe.

This trend continues. After "American Dream for Three Pianos," a welcome four-minutes piano piece, perfect for an off-beat murder film set in London in the late-1800s, "Copy!" steps in with a typewriter, more Reich-ian twinkling, and some drums that sound like a beginner's game of basketball in a dilapidated middle school auditorium-cum-gymnasium. That lasts all of a minute, and soon, the not-much-longer "Music for the Home No. 1" pairs a harpsichord with yet more glockenspiel explorations.

Because your attention span hasn't already been assaulted enough, part one of "Music for the Home No. 2, Bedtime Story - Three Little Pigs," entitled "Hog the Impaler," is a rumbling, irritating blend of various organ chords. But half a minute later, the minute-long piano solo "Pinky the Dreamer" jumps to the other side of the spectrum, where quietude reigns. "Squealer the Con" then returns to the previous chaos of "Hog the Impaler," and runs approximately the same length.

"Toward Dust Spiral Section," the third and longest of three following stand-alone pieces, is the antithesis of nearly everything preceding it. An 8+ minute ambient track that takes Eno's patience and adds some suspense, it shows that Ellis is entirely capable of forging a unique sound of his own. The interplay of piano, harpsichord and electronic flutes begins amicably, but not without tension, and slowly builds into a less-structured piece-- an ironic development that makes masters of the genre so compelling.

"Symphonies of Wind-Up Instruments (Three Movements for Imaginary Music Boxes)" is the third segmented piece, but it's just as short and jarring as the others. Fortunately, "Arctic Crossing" provides another long glimpse into Ellis' ability as an ambient composer. Even more patient and minimal than "Toward Dust Spiral Section," it lives up to its title with a mass of wind, spooky whirs, and distant explosions. Imagine the Civil War being fought on Arctic floes at midnight, as alien crafts hover above, manipulating the entire scene.

Yet, despite these triumphs, Music for the Home feels like avant-minimalism for devotees of Michael Bay. Before you even have time to absorb the surroundings, you're shipped off to another locale entirely and told: this should move you to feel something. Some people might say, "You just don't understand this kind of music." But as a sentient human being, I understand noise as much as the next person, and for the most part, I don't like the arrangement of noises found here.

-Ryan Kearney