I’m sure you’re beginning to think by now that the more twisted and evocative music is, the more I am going to superlatively splurge about it. This is a genius of a record. It is off-kilter, it is challenging and it deftly defies any known formats or templates. It exists within a netherworld that I can only describe as avant-garde indie. It grabs inspiration from all over the shop (blues, grunge, alt-pop) but it definitely doesn’t exist in any of those worlds.

What you have then is a sprawling stream of consciousness that remorselessly explores the dark underbelly of life. It is a bleak, non-linear record that mischievously plays with form and function. It is inconsistent in style but that is very much both its calling card and its chief virtue. Over a kaleidoscope of often disturbing and regularly inconsequential noise, we have Tony Castrato's spoken word delivery.

He is reminiscent of the late great and very much lamented Mark Lanigan in his lethargic drawl. His delivery is slow and acidic and it just adds to the aura of decay and faded grandeur. An absolutely astonishing record that challenges every preconception about what music should or could be.