The inaugural discharge. Processed percussion streams into sputtering homemade synths and tense dronescapes ... Birdcalls and reptilian tail splashes are echoed by ping pong analog electronics ... The swamp atmosphere oozes into the nightclub, where artificial fog hovers over adventurous breaks and samples ... Slowly a pulse wiggles around the static and lingers before dissolving into nocturnal space ambient ... We are awakened with feedback and scattered thoughts on jail, bowel movements, and the social contract, then soothed by a twangy lullaby piped in from the past ... Skeletal electronic rhythms and repetitive voices entrance, further vocal deconstructions scatter into musique concrète and fade ... Sounds of the material world finally reground us ... humming engines and squealing rubber, a resonant percussion punctuated by silence and whispers ...