Our favourite desert-dwelling mystic serves a short but potent third album for Warp. Under the creed "You can put a muzzle on me, cover my mouth, cut out my tongue but the truth will still come out" Sumach Valentine rasps ten songs meditating on the impact of his experiences on the road "It's the response to all the adrenaline, aggression and anger he felt traveling the world, it's a spectrum of creativity and a testimony of how one mans passion and determination is often misunderstood as anger." The downcast mood and bruised sense of soul is a much darker cry than his other mini-LP releases, starkly realising and coming to terms with a pervasive bleakness that just feels right in these times. Rather than psychedelic, the production tends towards blunted and downbeat, from the clearly Portishead-like vibes of 'White Picket Fence' and 'Feedin' Birds', through the busted drums and spooked organs of 'Rubberband' or Timeout', but our highlight has to be his heartbroken effort 'The Blame', drawling "til they f**king blow up mars, grown men f**kin' blow up dolls" over wickedly woozy synths and sluggish drums, bringing us to the knackered conclusion of 'Blaksuit'.A1 White Picket Fence A2 Feedin' Birds A3 Nikels And Dimes B1 Rubberband B2 Venom B3 Timeout C1 Skin C2 The Blame D1 Blaksuit D2 Sniffin'
