‘The Fire Inside’ begins with wires strafing a meniscus of scoured funk surface tension; a door to a dreamworld swings open – rabbits disappear down rabbit holes, Alice eats another sugar cube. After a minute or so, the rush kicks in – adding mass and impetus to the English psych garden party as salvos of pure intent detonate across the juxtaposing melody. A shifting kaleidoscope; familiar shards are projected across one another to create the new as the ionosphere is achieved. Sonic vapour trails take the number into a weightless realm, as a temporal broadcast from a cultural frontline disturbs the calm. A sound of singular merit, drifts in its reflexive realm.
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A spiral scratch, moving inexorably on within a decaying orbit toward a gravity well of nihilism: The hole at the centre of a record that does not exist, yet has sufficient mass to draw attention toward its core. The ghost of Ron Asheton strafes its opening, searching to destroy. A meniscus of surface tension is created, then dispelled, as the pummelling motif hits its righteous groove. A laconic, insouciant vocal tells us everything and nothing, reminiscent perhaps of Bill Carter on ‘ludes, providing counterpoint to the priapic spasm that ignites upon contact with air. Febrile and thrusting, here is rock’n’roll music.