Chewy Benson constructed in the shadows of Thwaites Brewery Blackburn and recorded in the junk shops and back alleys that surround. Red brick beats, slate roof with broken chimney stack in grey blue light of 5am; last gasp of autumn morning. Victorian blue plaque memories, two turn tables and a well cut suit. Al Bowlly sharing the lambs bread with Perry. Sequenced found noise field recordings that crunch and split. Voices from another time, lifted and placed with care into the quiet places all towns have. The grey areas between what things are, and what they could be if you squint. iPod film soundtracks for films I make with my eyes on the journey to work. Wilfully skewed, resisting pop music with closed arms/open mind. Angular and fragile at the same time, one man dreaming of big bands with 808s, Hip Hop in brogues, defiantly small town, defiantly big sound. Each stitch a sample.