For a duo making such sparse music, it is surprising how fluid Tara Cunningham and Jack Cooper (both of Modern Nature, he also of Ultimate Painting and a collaborator with Apartment House) sound, without mixing restraint with tension or control with anxiety. Guitar music, The Sleeves join improvised guitar with a kind of slowcore revival. Listening to their self-titled album, released this year, is like stepping into a time capsule and hearing Low for the first time. The comparison is somewhat unfair to Low, because the trio was unique — and, later on, unpredictable — but The Sleeves concentrate well the formula of doing much with little. And that is why we think of Low. The swiftness with the use of words also helps. But a comparison is only a comparison. The Sleeves have merit of their own. The secret lies in that fluidity, which manifests in the guitars, running endless lines, finding a solution for the next moment, and in how words and phrases justify themselves, even when they often seem incomplete. The purpose is simple: in The Sleeves' songs we feel there is always something left to do, and both musicians are excellent at conveying that, by the way they complete ideas with something unfinished. It is music that says everything because something is left unsaid, and that conveys that everything is fine. That is why control has no anxiety, because it is not quite control; that is why anxiety never materialises, because there is nothing to be anxious about. One accepts that things are fine as they are. The fullness of The Sleeves exists in what is left unfilled. What we hear in the silences, what we feel when an idea seems to have ended halfway, what we feel like doing when a song ends in a murmur (of voice, of guitar, it doesn't matter) and hangs on a response. Maybe there is no response. The Sleeves are a beautiful commitment to what lies in between suggestion and fulfilment, with a fabulous calm, a relaxation that truly relaxes. They are the musical ASMR you never expected to hear. AS.