Das Ding, the dutch wave savant, arrives on Pinkman with four works of full bodied synth sorrow. Freezing rain pelts rusting machinery, a barren land of decay stretches out onto dancefloors. Rasping rhythms and lumbering bass buttress bitter chords and grinding notes that compel bodies to move. And within the dereliction, behind the dilapidation and rot, burns a purity of expression that is emblematic of Danny Bosten's consistent quality.