Notes on the songs:

The ten-minute title track is no ersatz krautrock rhythm nor anodyne ambient wash, but a lurch through three rooms. It begins in an astral cave-cellar, emptying the junk and dirt of commercial radio in preparation for the melody to come. When the singer clears the corpse from his mouth to an industrial-cockney accompaniment, it's the invitation to a party, but all the guests are long-dead. Pasolini is first on the guest list, but it's difficult to distinguish the artist from the politician when both are putting razor-blades in their turd-cakes.

'Yer Vimv' is an overdriven rock hobgoblin. It is a visionary experience on a bus. Broken glass merges with the violently dispersed nails in the bar to the chorus's disco-beat: religion doesn't come into it. Instead share a joke with the woman who split up the most important duo of the twentieth century. No, not Lennon and McCartney – Charles and Di. This song also reveals that Blair's hubris is rooted in his love of Greek Tragedy.

To end it all, we are injected straight into 'Clone Guilt': enviously regarding the simple lives of the cow, the sheep – even Dolly. Would the beasts of the field have any use for the mp3 medium? This recording is the remnant of an ungodly union and its pollen has already drifted to the next field.