Fragments is moody, immersive, and utterly unbound. Across the album, kosmiche-inflected, hauntological electronica plays freely with melody, finding emotional resonance for our unpredictable times. Neu-esque repetitions and motorik grooves pulse beneath skewed electro textures, and occasional spoken-word passages drift in and out like transmissions from an unknown broadcast. Occasional flashes of psychedelic prog guitar cut through hazy atmospheres, edging the sound further toward Fuller’s own kind of hypnagogic pop, that is strange yet deeply human.

Although this is a solo album, it’s not a solo album in the traditional sense of representing an artist’s thoughts and feelings during a particular time frame. Instead, Fuller’s album is a peek into the world of a restless creative who is always churning away. “I’m in my studio right now!” He says, “I’m making music like I always do. I have no idea who or what it’s for, like always.” This is a record that spans time as it collects fragments of Billy creating alone in his home studio over the last few years. Through listening, one gets the impression of art that sometimes has a vision in mind, and is sometimes just the product of someone enjoying the process of creating in the moment. All of these pieces have lain, forgotten and dormant, until now.