In the freezing cold crouched next to a generator with a jerry can as Gadigal chorus pedal punk blends jungle up towards the concrete barrier from a Polyend tracker. Twisting the Dom and Roland jungle form into a dark and dirty fantasy of smoky dub, dirty hands, and desolate retriggers, Trash Jungle simmers with snaky breaks and a weird and wily attitude to sample collection, snaking towards Mala with a hand firmly on the neck of the gothic. Attitudes of wonky cut up combine panning that acts like a warm hug for the ear holes, you know it’s good when an office-worker-type says it’s the worst thing he’s ever seen, ghostly dub for the post-industrial age falling short of those it stands against. Throw it on before breaking the sound barrier with a double cocked finger and a knitted beanie against the ravages of time.