Basketball wander beneath night skies patterned with LED constellations across the same pixelated Paper Rad deserts frequented by like-minded sonic nomads and purveyors of jagged Sublime Frequency inspired noise Rainbow Arabia and Mi Ami, dragging behind them broken drums and malfunctioning machines forever talking in tongues attached to a trail of fluorescent wires slithering across the dust bowl like a congregation of snakes. Out there on the plains they erect a giant crystal rave tent in preparation for the forthcoming sandstorms with the ancient native tribes people they encountered as a circus of silhouettes before a moon that could have swallowed them as they sat atop their mechanical chrome camels. In the tent they collaborate to conjure up an intoxicating mauve mist of shamanic disco, vocal gabba straining to fight against the sheets of HEALTH like metallic trance that rhythmically collide with the bubbling of broken-bone riddims that sends everybodies eyeballs rolling into the backs of their heads as they await to wake in the center of the eye.

Basketball – Journey To The End Of The Night

Thrashing and flailing like the feral kid brothers of Liars, out of the glowing ashes of Lost Penguin emerge Not Cool with a shitstorm of blasted brain guitar and bug eyed teencream yelps that should by any rights get the kids spindly, sweat soaked bodies swaying down at the local fuzzed out soda shop as if every bone in their body had been dislocated and they were in fact being held up by sheer magical force of noise, while the dirt and grime beneath their feet gradually whipped itself up into a sludgey sea of sticky waste and broken glass, there to drown them all.

Not Cool – Limbs Are For Liars