Epic private press art damage from this terminally overlooked left field L.A. character. This was Catham's one LP after a string of tapes and delineates a specific and very special zone of song form detournement, triangulating a stance here that's one part post-Residential pop hermeticism of in the rarified vein of Steaming Coils, The Freshly Wrapped Candies and The History Of Unheard Music, one part narrative-intensive minimal synthiness ala John Bender and Douglas Bregger and one part deconstructed sprechtstimme spew and rhythm box splutter ala Craig Burk. This is singularly fried and ingenious work that truly begs for a rediscovery.
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