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Boomkat Product Review:
There's very definitely a sense of occasion here, greeted by much curiosity and anticipation for what must be one of the most eagerly awaited and long overdue third albums to have come out of the Warp stable since its inception. The dancefloor exorcet of the mighty "Freak" single is offset by the opening album track "Blown" - a melodic acid drop that revolves around distorted and treated vibes and percussion that could have easily been lifted from Autechre's debut 'Incunabula', an oddly spacious number that sets the scene for what's to follow with much soul and aplomb. "Mum-Man" adheres to a rigid Aphexian manuscript, a mightily twisted distortion rattling through the sequence as it drops into an angry belting squelch of a track, a sort of "Come to Daddy" for blown out rave casualties on the lookout for some more action - rude. "Snot" rattles like a high-NRG flip on Plaid's playful tronica, a 4/4 stomp that sizzles through an arcade machine scrapyard full of grating buzzes and tight 4/4 posturing - messy and deliciously so. "Moistly" is sublime, a breathy whisper sets the fluid percussive undertone, rigid bass modulations and some simple, timeless analogue sequences keeping company for the short, perfectly formed duration of its classic electronic soundscaping. "Unafraid to Linger", meanwhile, flamboyantly shows off its low-end prowess with a kick drum to die for and the sort of eerie strings you just don't hear anymore. The overall effect is like taking your most treasured, blurred warehouse memory and slowing it down to a frame by frame acid flashback that doesn't make any sense - an upside down, delicious ode to drug-fuelled hedonizm that was all about dancing, nothing else. "Sleepy Chicken" rolls of with a warm glow of double-bass and twilight tinkles, an almost beatless lead-up to the puncturing messiness of the aforementioned "Freak" that follows. "'Premacy", finally, ends us off with an analogue beatless affair - reminding you once again how much can be said with so little, leaving you to fill in the gaps with the distant drums echoing off somewhere in the muddled memory, a battered, cathartic afterthought to a lifetime of rigid jacking. Welcome back Mr Bell.