In a long line of vanity pressings, My Cat Is An Alien seems to offer up no sway here. This doesn’t mean that the results vary. I have friends who decry the profligacy of their releases and perhaps relight so. That may be true, but they do continue to produce some of the most psychedelic offerings anywhere in the known universe. This release continues the tradition of the audacious, in your face rehab-denying zoned marrow-slurping limited edition outsider-we’ll-do-as-we-fuck beauty they’ve always done, despite their unfortunate name. But I digress Their beauty is undeniable. They’re aim is true. Their music is sex-wet-swamp-mud.

Can’t say there’s much drugged out difference than their earlier outings, but who cares. When this shit works, it works, and that their pussy mrows and sprays and spews in all those fabulous peculiar shift-ring mood color washes, all punctuated by sloshing anti-rhythms whirl sweeps and gushes, it’s hard to argue for them those nights when crushing along around 110 mph on some starlit road boarded by corn and crescent moon bizaree lights shut out all your car’s electrical systems. And there you are. Total darkness, ready to fuck.

Yes, this works. It’s gorgeous. This drone, it throws sparks and it updates what Taj Mahal Travellers did decades ago—perhaps by technology, who knows. But at the same time it attests to the timelessness of drone itself. The one thing I can distinguish here is that the kinetic movement these kitties pose—they’re always in motion, wailing, feedbacking. They serve a grit where those of 30 years ago could hardly conceive.

This is post-komische, sans groove and those pitfalls. No longer are the need for the groove…because those are buried in there and they’re up for you to find. After all, it’s mostly all projection anyway.

And then come the heavenly strings, part of that kinetic wonderment I alluded to earlier. And always the tension between the metals and the strings and sythns. My…my oh my. 10/10 -- P. Somniferum (1 September, 2009)