Your first listen to Tommy Hilfiger will pass you by. A rumble of thunder, a steady throb of electronics, an accordion jaunt. Gone. What just happened? It’s like a cryptic voicemail message, building up to a deep confession before bottling it and cutting the line dead. Rasines leaves me with 10 minutes of half-articulated thoughts and poetic inferences. I replay them over and over again, desperate to pull together a meaning from the scraps of sound and the way they interrelate. I hyper-analyse each gesture in search of signals and veiled attempts to communicate. It doesn’t make sense to talk about Tommy Hilfiger being 10 minutes long when I spend an hour deconstructing it.