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this time around mr.balls fries bacon off the chests of over-heated beach-goers in a torrid, smattering spectacle thats as fidgity as it is distent. somewhere down the line the tape player starts loosing its juice on the hard wood floor and starts to collect stimulated reverberations from backwoods expanse causing the tape to throb and flutter in the irrate brume. this is a collection of similar ideas executed around the same time by different means. percussion, tapes, electronics, amplified ruler & cookie tin recorded in several tempos and moods. sounds like stomu yamash'ta with the finger on the mute button recorded through a polluted ribbon contraption intercepting some kind of abusive broadcast...