Title suggests that Ital is not a fan of the disco escape path. It's a big, brawling statement of intent to open a mini-LP with, eh? Fading into Chris Morris-like time-delay chaos at the end, as it does.
"Floridian Void" is anything but, crowded and with Michael Mann ocean keyboards washing up at our sock-less slip-ons. The air is pretty thick with the hipster moider about Klingon and what have you weaving in and out reminding me of Beck's "Heartland Feeling".
"Privacy Settings" doesn't have the house backdrop of the first tune, but slips and slides around in a minimal-beat undergrowth with metallic sibillant whispers and a lupine chorus belting out orgiastically in the woods out back. A fairy tale gone viral inside and out. You're listening to maggots, Michael.
Ideas about foliage grow up around "Israel" too - a lush Antarctic anti-forest reaching for the distant sun around a sample about the evils about the internet that washes in and out of the mix. Then melting cowbells and a bongo-ish groove come to the party, skidding about the tarmac while a tsunami of gelid synths tower above threatening to crash over the portals of the New Jerusalem and lay serious waste. Shimmering house thud. A glorious ten minutes of it.
"First Wave" carries on with the Eighties baton, bunting of the stuff hanging from the ceilings and fashioned into screen curtains to keep the flies away from the meat within. It struts along very cool with chunky bass digs and artificial organ pipes.
It's a wobbly Polaroid of house, sick on 'flu and poor life choices, experimental bad dreams about its future dripping from every pore. Good, good.
Rating: Sculpture out of Unsculpture
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