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“A dusty plain, a red sky, sand in your teeth— ‘I don’t feel so great’—a post-apocalyptic hooptie jeep-jammer. ‘Why is everything in ruins? There must be others like us out here somewhere…’ “This fine sizzling grease pit of cyber punk comes to us from psychic veteran Rick Pelletier (of Six Finger Satellite, Landed, La Machine), always bringing an interesting, bent and lurid account of visions to wax for the hungry ear bone. This time around the equipment scavenged is guitar, drums, synth and vocals. The beat goes full lotus climbing out of the goo, like men with sap gloves slapping the hulls of the remaining clubs, keeping the peace during live actions, gorgeous nauseating synthesized harmonies blowing through the ceiling vents, frickle-fried guitar belly slish and vocals delivered over the P.A. at Barter Town (sometimes from the workers in the pit, in unison). “Picture a bucket of molten metal with gobs of scalp sizzling and sinking away—dance music for the infected. Be sure to double up on your dose before driving around on this one so you can wipe the chum smear off your wind screen.” —John Dwyer