Like the sweet clutter of a million tiny hammers on the face of an oiled tin sheet, Bjork’s diaphanous milky trip and base dystopia reminds one of the hardest whispers of the early Bristol massive, heard at six am on the underground from the leaky ear bellows of some jacked up urban crunk kid, still twitching after a dozen nights of club skip and jump. Half chewed chunks of itchy samples scratch under the skien of nifty vocal longings, whole scenes skipping by in Swanseaic Brechtian flourishes.

Bjork’s literally stolen from herself on this record, sampling whole sentences from the studio and laying them down next to music, like careless instrumentals. One can almost hear the thought that went into this performance, hovering just over the surface of the spinning limited edition vinyl, vengeful and replete with even fresher, more dangerous truths. Gold.