Why release mixtapes? What is a mixtape?

Who the fuck cares. Anyway, this is a compilation tape, not a mix tape. Imagine you bought it from a dodgy old skinhead in Camden market in 1991 and you are deeeelighted because it’s exactly the unregistered collection of sound you didn’t know you were hoping for (what’s that? You weren’t even born in 1991? Impossible!). The bass farts the little sound system in your Escort as you drive round town enjoying the lights and pointless driving. Then you head out into the suburban counties, where UK Garage became attached to the skinny belt round a jazz funk belly (worn high), once upon a Southend time (Lacey Lady, Fun Or Fear), via the Set It Off beat (Feelin Lego) and premium grade dub. Ah, the working classes, you have always had radical taste, out there, on the new-build fringes. The weirdest among you would scratch in The Pop Group, between African Pop tunes so it’s only natural that here (Neon Sculpture) is a slice of Gqom being assaulted by feedback, ridden by the cutest, darkest apocalyptic ravings. What’s it about? A self-doubting art school terrorist making a funding application in a mogadon fug of fugitive terror due to heroin use.

In 1991 there was a small fad in London for ‘psychedelic skinheads’, back when a number one crop was still a statement. In theory they would have loved Only Do Wot U Wanna Do, (our focus track) but in actual fact they mainly danced to house and techno so a big stomper like this would have left their DMs static. So fuck em.

Woops, here we are back in the right now and Law Holt matter of factly chatting about a normal day as a nurse on the Covid ward. An i-Will - last minute, written on a wipeable iPad. You are the witnesses.

Security. Safe. The bits and pieces of dub, sonic i-ching, endless rolls of the dice dictating which random noise will suddenly become important, just in case you get bored.

Sex stalks this reel of quarter-inch chromium dioxide tape, sneaking around, looking for a ketamine quicky that Seems. To. Take. Forever. Left panting, desperate, sweaty and spunky in a Hot Knot, sings Cheng Cheng in his best straw cowboy hat, bandy legged for obvious reasons.

The Hairdresser’s Song - the nexus where a Q-anon mule fucker meets heavenly angels in an orgy of skepticism.