Marta Tiesenga is making a time machine of noise. They wish we could all live in the Renaissance — but in, you know, a fun historically anachronistic way (with watches and things). They improvise “writhing like a wounded animal, grasping for any shred of comfort but finding none." They are serious and melancholy, churning thoughts, atoms chronically elsewhere, playing — perhaps in all those other realities as they do here — like a lightning-feather. A presence-sledgehammer. A ???-maelstrom of kindness. While their natural habitat is somewhere deep in the taiga, they have indeed been spotted at more populated venues like the Hollywood Bowl and also “Television.” Marta’s electro-acoustic viel has melted an Icelandic Church. Their animations have wings. As a saxophonist they’ve made pop hits and did Jock saxophone conservatory stuff. They played canyons, and the Kunsthalle. Made music with Broken Social Scene and Durand Jones and the Indications. Marta is our friend, they are driving a bus to realities unknown and yet unrealized. And we, future denizens of their hopeful vision, are gleefully riding shotgun.