Our sci fi hero, blood cells brimming with neo digital information, leaps from roof to roof, the shadowy forces of the government kill-data bureau in his wake – the world authority has banned privacy and our hero is smuggling the ingested secret information from the dark net to a cabal dedicated to the overthrowing of public access networking – he misjudges the space between the hi rises and plummets 808 stories, his hunters pausing at the edge, breathing hard thru their fallout-dust reducing masks, peering into the vertical darkness below until he is out of site -they talk into their sleeves and wait for guidance from the Sharer General.
A flying salesman glimpses a caped man like a thunderbolt and recalls the ancient comics of his grandfather’s childhood. Our hero activates his ion-capture and rises on a bed of positive charge just above the smog-bed – his thermos-registry tells him the dogs are off his tail – he eases up on the speed and cracks a nano-energy drink, quaffing the minute robots which will spend their short lives reducing lactic acid and regulating adrenaline for the rest of this crazy ride – he plots a course for the endless party in the sky, a rooftop on another high rise in neoyorkminster, it’s bombed out patrons cover for nefarious data-sharing activities that would send anybody to mars for 3 lifetimes of breaking red rock – he adjusts his earphones, streaming a live private performance of Mutiny On The Bounty‘s Digital Tropics, so as to hear the uptempo, high energy yet apocalyptic soundtrack better – man (note to self): ‘get the new rear-head subsonic implants, I’m fed up with not feeling that bass move the hairs on the nape of my neck’ – he doesn’t notice the amassed police k9s behind the Rockermurdoch twin towers, snorting red diesel and whining with anticipation, hovering on their nervously spurting jets, hive minds screaming at one another, waiting for the signal – aiming straight for certain capture, torture and exile.
Mutiny on the Bounty fatally distract our hero by grooving their way through a world populated by percussionist guitars digitally cascading like c++ computations, raw synths gathering like jagged clouds on the horizon, aerated post-apocalyptic euphoric chord sequences, metallic overdriven bass like the inexorable destruction of wildlife, and hardcore disco beat-down like the soundtrack to every science fiction film where guys wear long black leather jackets.
Much loved by enthusiants worldwide for their regular installments, their abiding dedication to the scene, their creatively open minded development of the genre, and their sheer goddamn musicianship. We salute them. And so should you.
Instrumental, post-rock, math rock, progressive, pop
Sounds A Tad Like
The Tupolev Ghost, Meet Me In St Louis, Colour, Delta Sleep
£5 digital; £12 vinyl-tal (Small Pond Recordings bandcamp)