The scale is wrong: the vanishing points inconsistent. The steps between notes form no tone or half-tone, the perspective is forced or false. Lunging crazily over the skyline, the lunatic figure of a kingkong wraithed in moth-tattered robes, thrusting stubby fingers up, up, towards the imagined chemtrails of poisonous radiation-dipped seagulls.

Listen Now.

These tendrils of sound will tantalise your earbuds like the ghostly fingers of a beckoning Lorelei:

Your dismay is my life-fuel.  Ram it down my neck at [email protected].

Twenty minutes. No refunds.