I think of this record as kind of a ‘Tim Presley reads his book on tape,’ the story of life in Los Angeles flowing like the low moisture river that it is. The start is uphill, long and slow, and you ponder when you will be spat out onto the straight away. By the time ‘Clean It Glen’ kicks in, your hands are sweating, and then you are there and it is glassy and wonderfully repetitive, repetitive, repetitive. Lights are flashing, cars are passing. There is synthesized wild life here—blips that are winged, crackles that are slithering through the digital grass. Echo ripples across a chrome topped body of water. You catch a glimpse of yourself in a store-that-sells-something window.