Launching your album with a pilfered and cut up volley of Carles Santos' avant vocal theatrics is surely one way of announcing the particular pillage and plunder contours of your plunderphonic practice, but this snarky Aussie po-mo sound artist (whose cv includes collaborations with Ikue Mori and Tony Buck of The Necks as well as membership in the formidable Mind/Body/Split) has a way with chop 'n' change shenanigans that's deft enough to render questions of such wholesale appropriation of another artists work of secondary concern. That opening Santos gambit is no random bit of fuckery either, as Rue's vision of the relentlessly brain noogieing dada decollage evinces a nagging fixation on the lung-y unguents and glottal grease of a thousand spitting sound poets. Factor that against a sustained sense of inspired juvenilia (the kind blurted from the innards of Zappa's grand pianos) and the result is as unimpeachable as it is unseemly.

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