Clint Ruin's latest all-instrumental mood-piece (he's usually busy as
Foetus/Lydia Lunch's squeeze) turns up in a stellar package (there are
some fanciful etchings on the flip side) and would prove a fitting, if
over-accelerated, accompaniment to a Fritz Lang film or Ayn Rand adaptation.
It glistens with noir, synthetic hipster beats, jazzily robotic pseudo-horns
and is immersed in swing-era bustle-starting fast and swishing breathlessly
toward an atomic-age conclusion.