Two places up from Park West, the dusk reflecting off the steel as steam hisses thru the rain, open zones to glide thru in the orange light. Something metal claws at your leg as the sky continues to burn pink This is a record about elegance, violence, electricity, water, marble, plants, trenchcoats, oily black jeep windows, crashed motorbikes, parks at twilight, clubs in the dark, broken DX7s and missed phone calls, written and recorded over a hot summer in a cramped flat with neighbours having sex through the walls. Classical Curves comes from a teenhood spent obsessively listening to both Prince and Youngstar, a tumultuous period as a performance artist-cum-designer marketing �chrome body extensions� to the fashion world, and a brief and bizarre spell as a corporate spy for a well known athletics brand. This is a record unique in its scope and vision, from a life that could only paint a world of romance and danger as vividly as this. It�s a record that owes equal parts to Philly Club as it does to Laurie Anderson, The Neptunes as it does to Einsturzende Neubauten, Steve Poindexter as it does to the soft jazz leads of Pat Metheny. A record conceived out of (but not confined to) the legacy of the great rhythm trak muziks: Chicago House, Detroit Techno, Grime and Club. Classical Curves deconstructs, then reconfigures these blueprints as skeletal, emotionally charged pop songs. Or perhaps it�s the other way around: We are engulfed in booming, monolithic kick drums/We are floating on a pink cloud. We are thrashed and contorted by sheets of metal/We are suspended in breathy quiet of sighing voices and raindrops kissing the windowpane - and then it erupts again. Classical Curves debuts its creators voice for the first time on record, taking on the roles of brazen alien catwalk commentator, crooning synth-pop pinup and whispering informant. And all the while the drums continue to snap, crunch, jerk and bump.