Mechanical punk chaos in the analogue age. Pre-digital. Prefrontal cortices lobotomised by a careless, irresponsible society but re-awakened to a community of the murderously harmless, the colourfully patterned, the spiked and bedraggled, crusty, musty, dangerous, dirty squatters.

A squabbling but affectionate family invaded by industrial noise. Saved by industrious art-noise. Heavy mental. Sculpted music. Fling yourself around. Bang your heads together, let your brains meet. Let your brain-meat melt. Unstoppable. Unacknowledged. Under the radar. Earth-shaking.

​

Two-thousand amphetamine-fuelled Drug Squad police officers, batons in hand, bearing down on the buses. Windows smashed, doors kicked in. A shrill women's voice. This our home, there are babies in here. The blackening of eyes. The dragging of hair. Earrings torn from lobes. Delirio Sinfonico. Two thousand Deserted Sunsets. Two thousand miles from Cwmbran, the valley of the crows. Onwards to Hackney, Notting Hill, to Berlin, to Stubnitz ROS-701, to LA, NYC, to Milan, to a petrol station outside Bristol at half-three in the morning.

​

That's the problem with art, it only takes you as far as your dreams. After that, you're on your own. Out of tobacco, out of money, out of time. Out of options. But never out of friends. Never will you ever give in. Crows keep pecking and clawing. Crows keep flying. Black wings wind-ruffled against a night sky, the darklight catching in the feathers' spectrum, and you're free again and on to the next adventure.