Philip Sherburne listens to my CD-R comp of thugsy, messy, dutty stinkin lowlights excerpted from a summer's worth of London pirate radio taping, reads gutter-garridge through the cloudy prism of a tripped-out urbanism (truly putting the psycho into psychogeography), then mashes that straight into an imagistic-to-the-max, er, appreciation of Wasteland's Amen Fire. The result: a blinding bit of
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