It's appropriate to begin with an all-encompassing, trite and lazy analogy as introduction.

The bearded chap with the shaved head prowls the tiny stage like a poacher, wary of rivals' snares yet crazed and rabid with the promise of blood.

His steps seem oblivious to their doomed repeat, a sickening, circular stage march - only broken lions in midnight zoos could empathise. Wild caged.

Then - a metal machine march of unstoppable technological apocalypse tears the Tin Man's rectum some new rectums (multi-recti by extereme force) - as we realise that these people are not musicians - they are architects - constructors of sound palaces in the ether in between the between, cementing the cracks in neurons, outrunning the light of every quark - building a shelter for the self-aware with screams for windows and questions for foundations.

The universe breathes - it is all, this room, all things. Existance itself contracts and expands with the groove, from the invisible dead to the microbes on the pint glasses. All is shake. All is vibration, built on strings, undiscovered chords and countless conchertos in the sky.

The skin of the ninth layer of hell has cracked open and these five warrior poets surf the pus. A five-headed beast is born. For your sins.

The cover of Hot Stuff was pretty good too.