Like a pool cue stubbing on felt, or flat rocks on a pond top,
DeLaVega bounces beats, handclaps and looped cell rings off your
inner ear and between your speakers. Always stonking, the beat
encounters some pitch-up sinewaves and fluttering static as the
tracks progess, as if they were pink puffy horseflies, lambent
and luscious. Then it's onto a short-circuit firecracker, scaly
with noise. Sonic splatter drains from your tweeters, running into
puddles onto the floor. Don't slipp on this.
