Murcof, aka Javier Corona, a rolly-polly Mexican computer musician and Phillippe Petit, a Frenchman on the edge were the ideal combination for a musical relationship – any relationship, in fact. Performing as part of festival LEM, there was the scent of vanilla, toothpaste and the CaixaForum’s auditorium was filled to bursting, to the point that a screen had to be propped in the lobby for those who couldn’t squeeze in. It was too warm, but Murcof kept his jacket on nevertheless, perhaps he’d spent time sampling cacti prickling in the desert. He and Petit giggled at each other then the Frenchman launched into his act: sawing and tickling of what looked like a small sitar with a child’s violin bow, waving what looked like a chest x-ray with a snap, scratching thimble-clad finger tips against a cheese grater, but he was best in a frenzy on the decks – the consequence of a small tantrum he’d thrown when his laptop failed to provide the distortion he’d relied on. A wave of empathy throbbed from the audience – we all understood – and Murcof consoled with his textured landscape. Trumpeter Mark Cunningham sidled in, like someone’s creepy uncle at Christmas dinner, but it only added a certain New Jersey breeze to the affair. For an hour and a half, time trickled at its own pace and by the end of it I’d sworn never to write previews again.