For once I think I’ll keep my spiel about this album succinct and to the point as I’d like to keep all the focus on the music for a change rather than endeavour to spill my mind onto a digital cave wall already festooned with mad rants and other festering notions that have long since been accomplished and filed away for the experts to intently review as they mutter laboriously into their scotch-scuffed Dictaphones that already contain whole libraries of broken headed mumbo jumdumjamjumbo; foolish tongues irrevocably giving their minds away to the bin men of savage shrinkery…no it would not serve this musical creation any MINTIT whatsoever if I was to adhere to my usual tactics of giving away trade secrets for just one sweet release of black tar dopamine from someone complimenting a tuning as that really can be achieved from other outlets such as a retweet from Andi Peters about drying out grapefruits and fermented field mice so as to make a new strain of off kilter vegan potpourri that blends well with the permanent aroma of jasmine and tangy oxtail soup distilled by Spanish Pastors who reside in Thurso, so I won’t be alluding to the mysterious shed this was all recorded in by a nomad tribesman called Limo, nor will I ever allow myself to utter any truths around the King of Ears who is actually a Duke and hunts wild wolves with even wilder psychotropic truffle addicted Elk, and should words get out that I spoke openly about the local voodoo practitioner who came to make beats with golden warlock bones struck hard on a skin of a live fruit bat across a jewel encrusted wheelbarrow then there is every chance I might be smited into pure dolphin larvae and spread across an inconceivably large slice of brie cheese and fed to a swamp donkeys feral love child to a rabid possum…which is also a great lover of brie, hence my complete and utter fear of this entire made up scenario within the realms of my soft BRAINS…so with all that said.

Custard.