The Caretaker presumably took about three years to warp a sequel to his'Selected Memories From The Haunted Ballroom' because he was so busysweeping up all the offal, trotters and cabbage leaves left in the wakeof other V/Vm shenanigans. Now he's back with more slow strangedisembodied waltzes from the far side of some limbo lounge in adeserted wintertime seaside resort. Those old 78s get the dusty sloweerie treatment to prove each today doesn't lead to a tomorrow. TheCaretaker is stuck in time lock, a ghost spinning his decaying plattersto skeletal slow-dancers in a shadow world where the 1930s loopeternal. In other words this is more of the same, but if you ate a goodcurry last week you might want another one this week, and this week'smight just be spicier. The Caretaker cannot escape the past but hasshifted it into other hyper-spatial dimensions by dint of sonictrickery. You've heard about tech house and happy house and all that -this is haunted house. The first half summons some nightmarishapparitions, whilst the second half is populated by more friendlyphantoms which lurk in the netherwrold between wking and sleeping.Crooning downhearted, the Caretaker can't go on this way, and floatsslowly downwards through murky vistas of emptiness, each movementsending huge echoes through the cavernous dusty ballroom, until heunwittingly summons forth malign forces of the occult to do hisrumbling ambient bidding. These malign forces make a big nasty seasideorgan blare, whilst distant rainfall splashes relentlessly on, pushingThe Caretaker to the edge of a breakdown, but he wakes up from thenightmare singing gayly of robins and roses. Thus through cloudinessthe Caretaker ascends a stairway to the stars for a date with an angel.He hasn't noticed that the crowds are long gone and the ballroom isempty except for two men in pig masks sneakily setting up laptops atthe back. In space, no one can smell your tripe. -
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