A Disklavier is an unusual kind of piano, in that, like a player piano, it plays itself as faithfully as it's told to. But unlike a player piano it responds to the MIDI protocol, rather than perforated rolls, the silences not measured by pieces of metal, but by complex encoded gestures, weighted probabilities standing in for phrasing, stochastic spasms and flurries of notes, and silences summoned mid-gesture, at once human, and yet somehow not quite.

Each piece on Whirlwind Dreams keeps company with not only with the protocol but with three figures who don't usually share a room. The keys inflected with Nils Frahm's hushed, close-mic'd intimacy, the unhurried, crooked logic of Thelonious Monk, and the spaces left behind by Morton Feldman's patience, notes suspended in space, ever falling.

The result is neither ambient nor jazz nor properly avant-garde, though it borrows a little from the manners of each. It's solo piano music made by human and non-human actors, each making their own small, strange decisions.