Fear not for what you are about to receive is surely from a place of bodily oddity. A plethora of tapes and minimal effects are accompanied by raw percussion and passionate flute. Through the labyrinth of thuds and breaths one tumbles, like Alice, into a fractured country of turbulence and disquieting beauty. Down and further down is spun on its axis to up and up beyond the thinning clouds. Flute loops in bellows inhuman. The clatter and chatter of percussion seems to quicken the heart in slumberous surroundings. Primal yet intricate, passionate and avant garde without at once being challengingly pretentious. The quiet and din dance in respectful, graceful methods demanding stuttered and lingered breaths. Insects murmur in pleats of linen, chaffing and clicking before the call issues. A silent brood wait, as the siren softly blows its breath to bask the patient bugs. Fingers and ears twinge dripping fluids that masturbate the cranium to the unimagined pleasures of Bosch’s demons. Arcs of ochre and sickening breaths ape intercourse to temp St Anthony. The claws are drawn and the spell broken as we fall with the winds to a discomfort soothed only by a longing call; a bastard flute in horror’s fête. Finally the drums roll a road of rubble and dust of ground antiquity, to an unventured parallel that feels as untimely as it does inviting. The repeated choir hangs in limbo on an unreal string of taught desire and pivotal grace. The armies’ feet vibrate along its narrow limb to fornicate in reverie to a sky neither above or below. And they call ever in looped prayer beyond the subtle tumbling percussion and the singing flute. There is a grandeur that mystifies and sets apart this duo beyond their contemporaries. The march gathers steam as it ventures to wider pathways; terra firma of fleshy substance. March becomes dance as spring to the calendar month. The light and rain fuse like flute and drum. Thronging bodies entwine in unbridled lust and sinews gather with gushes of fluid and spit. Bones, teeth and screeching nails pucker hardened clay with wind-blown notes that penetrate thorough. Hands grasp in groped fervour, the vexation of the virile violent with intent. And then. The quiet. It soothes. Condensation of the sweetest breath drips in cool veins upon some dual window peaking with twinned portals. Silence. The drama lives on in resonance as the patterns remain in woven sound that echoes long after its terminus. PWHMOBS have made their greatest contribution yet. The second side long live effort soars high above most of what I’ve had the fortune to hear this year. Both towering in its execution and in its invention. I can’t recommend this enough. 10/10 -- Peter Taylor: foxy digitalis