Prime-time air-pounding stuff from the prorle Chris Liberator although not the screaming acid-trance that anyone familiar with his name may expect. This time the weapon of destruction is the metallic synth which starts out deceptively sedate lulling you into a false sense of security. Then things start getting out of hand. The tune breaks down, rising up again with the synth building and building before being unleashed. Just when you’ve got used to this state of affairs and are going suitably potty on the dance floor the percussion stops again. Inevitably this is merely a device by which to prolong anticipation before things get really out of hand and the tune goes completely apesh*t. Wicked.