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.