When conceptual art really kicked off in the mid twentieth century, many of its protagonists were so determined to purge art of its decorative frilliness, they turned more and more towards words, or rather, lack thereof. The likes of Duchamp, Dali, Breton, Reinhardt, each uncensored by the rational mind, made moves towards the absurd and the sublime, with varying degrees of success and failure alike.

In this piece, what one finds is the artist attempting to convey a number of things, and asking a number of questions of us as the listener what do we seek in such art? In which ways are tobe intellectually, spiritually and sexually fulfilled by its visceral and confrontational abandonment of conventions? Is it incongruous juxtaposition? Does it lead us as the audience to question ourselves as living breathing beings, our hopes and truths, and our benign tastes so often dictating our choice and free will?

The piece is a natural extension of surrealism, dadaism and indulgence, themselves often strange bedfellows. Elaborate and provocative in its execution, displaying a signature of insatiable curiosity, and leaving no stone unturned, it portrays the artist as a provocateur of postmodernism, mysticism, and decadence.

It transgresses the elusive world of the subconscious more imaginatively than previous offerings. Its also a piece which stitches together the scraps of art and culture, politics and poetry, and science and exotica that could often be found in the Southport of the late noughties and beyond. An extremely clever conceit there could be any manner of things concealed within this record, but we as the listener will never know because as as soon as one opens the record, the art is destroyed, the value is lost, so we will never, ever find out.

Ones most overriding sensation is that the piece feels like a shit filled hand grenade which the artist has flung into our collective psyche. It is quite simply, a joke, and a very poor joke.[info sheet from distr.]