The music that follows – Track1: “S.H.C” – is a collage of... sound / noise / … / : flanged tumbler-driers [ + & helium-beaked chickens]; bell-like sonorities; English Channel Roar [Music for Cross-channel Ferry Engines ?]; scrapings, bumps that go thing in the night; ominous see-sawing sine-waves; and all / all / all this interspersed with random interjections / BBC News Gawn Wrong: it's an invocation of the gently nauseous; seasick meditation music; a well-mannered air of disquiet – as if the dreary background machinery of our sad workaday little lives is slowly turning against us, is politely expressing its disgust.
It's oddly mannered, considered, disrespectfully not in-in-your-face, yet resolutely Anti-H*untology'.
There's nothing Spontaneous about this Human Combustion; it's a slooow burn, the sound... the result of decades of being ground-down by work, life, disappointment... of England inwardly grinding its teeth, soaking it up, swallowing its pride, againandagainandagain until anger becomes a dull burnished surface, a smouldering low-key sense of unexpressed resentfulness that sounds like a washing-machine that needs replacing the week after its warranty runs out.
And the sleeve-notes: wonderfully, bogus-ly inauthentic: footnotes to a powerful, parallel, unlived Past – a world that never was (more the pity!) – a life more vital, more lived-in, more fully and imaginatively inhabited than one seen thru a telescope shoved up the bald, unwinking ass of the Mid-Noughties.
You can't buy that.