Groove and rhythm is so mashed and battered with frequency alteration that it becomes indistinguishable and metaphysical, aged from atrophy and wear. You aren't sure if it's a programmed melody or if you are projecting your own inner groove against the Mortal Kombat percussion. Your body is condemned to inertia in unsettling pixel outer space and you feel the gestalt of the hyperactive and childish sandy tunes, how they always deliver excitement in the same way that the harsh animation of Rugrats is exciting. Grey ash of torched cities, volcanic-like in the way that it floats as if it isn't real, black and white sportswear behind a blur of fire and shadows and hostile demeanour is aptly condensed and epitomised into these three tracks. The static of the percussion goes beyond acidic or chromatic; it omits sharply the angry hiss of TV static, the deafening silence of a ravaged city, with all electronics raped and stolen, humming and wondering of what their purpose is for now. Ink blots, small scratches on glass surfaces, thistles of hair from a paintbrush on a week old oil painting, diaphanous yellow stains on your favourite Jean Paul Gaultier long sleeve; all of these are the microscopic imperfections highlighted in Rezzett's picturesque post-apocalyptic mirage.