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Cyborg apemen from the Pleistocene, battered but alive after crashing their flying saucer on the Dutch plains, arrive in '97 with their second full length: the last before the instrumental shift that will mark their subsequent masterpieces.
Aerospace engineers armed with clubs, they carve out bass and guitar lines soaked in groove to the brink of saturation, blend tight and pressing stoner rhythms ("Short Sharp Left"), and loop them like error messages in an infected computer ("Powertruth"). They instill synth arpeggios, delay, echoes, and reverbs, samples from space malfunctions, circuit sizzling, CPU chatter, fleeting appearances of Hammond organs, and a hoarse, rough voice that screams, rants, and writhes.
Ambassadors of a barbaric horde from hyperspace, not yet fully evolved, they miss the masterpiece because, paradoxically, they are still too anchored to the frameworks of a, albeit vague, "song form," still too weighed down by heavy excesses that compress and thicken the sound, ultimately stifling the more sci-fi and psychedelic components ("Big Bore").
Troglodytes with a penchant for interstellar travel, they play music that seems to be solely theirs, made of vigorous distortions and rhythms with the molecular density of lead, on which thousands of lights, indicators, LEDs, and desperate alarm signals of suicidal spaceships light up frantically.
Music in which the sanguine metallic clangor marries the aseptic whirring: hard and primitive, yet capable of inspiring artificial and futuristic visions, where apocalyptic atmospheres, at times hallucinatory, alternate with unexpected cosmic openings, placid visionary diversions ("Zero 21", "Vein 66"). Music from another planet. Music of giants. Music from people who stomp the ground but with fingers brushing the stars.
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