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Tortoise has been lofting sleek-not-slick post-rock into the ambient ether for so long, you shouldn’t blame yourself if you haven’t noticed ’em in a while — even if the band is sandwiched on your iPod between, say, T- Pain and Trey Anastasio. The studio would seem to be the group’s natural habitat, with choice cuts from its latest instrumental platter (Beacons of Ancestorship) mucking with propulsive, synthesized spurts that connect dots between Neu!, “Fly Like an Eagle,” and a rare junk-shop Casio find. Tortoise’s tunes never fully resolve, though, which explains both the “post” prefix and why some tracks feel like emails from a brainy friend who uses…ellipses…reflexively, trying to stave off anything that might, you know, constitute an actual statement. Closure phobia intrigues and irritates in equal measure on Tortoise albums, but in concert, it’s a feature, not a bug, scanning winningly as a jamtronic impulse to make cerebral robot-rock with a sweaty human face. Live, what’s not to love?