There’s no tin to say what this does on, but Minus Eight promise minimal elecro and deliver it, not in spadefuls but in tiny pinches, saltspoons and soupçons. Sparse beats click and crack in blank empty sonic spaces. A tight snare sound hangs in the air surrounded by nothing. Occasional incidental go very little way to fill the cavernous void on these two lengthy tracks. The aural equivalent of an art gallery between exhibitions, there’s little to it and little to be said about it.
MinusEight Online
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