Old sounds cut up, rearranged, often awkward, stiff, yet fluid, plastic and urgent. Made modern. Taking an edge to the familiar. The designer sheen of Jan Hammer and Michael Mann given a fresh paint job courtesy of Jackson Pollack or William de Kooning. Stray Roto-toms rattle. As if three records were playing at once, all of them slightly out. Drawn in by the brain / head `s need to make things fit, to try to make them safe. Sweetness off-set, spiked. A mickey in the daquari. Marshall Jefferson`s Truth become disembodied, bathed in the light. Corporeal become ethereal. If the Cocteaus made House. Naked at the waterfall. If there`s Detroit here then it`s in the stories of loops being played and altered for days on end, a la Derrick May`s role in the creation of “Strings Of Life”. Relics. A fade to black. A gravitational arch released, Jupiter`s moons adrift. If I can hear The Art Of Noise, then it`s closer to the edit, the rhythm cut into itself. Repetitive but irregular. Pal Joey`s Jazz as a speakeasy shuts its doors. Tired horns blowing through a room of chairs stacked on tables. The party swept to memory. Wannabe starlets rehearse dreams in a spotlight without an audience. Max D`s orchestra tunes up.

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