Microphone placement and mixing are Stetson's art, as much as his formidable solo sax playing. His close miking, then massive amplification of pressed keys, or his exhaling nose and mouth, are an ever more extreme quest into extended, full-body technique. As with earlier solo work there's an implicit narrative here, concerning desire, destiny, the afterlife and Greek-style tragedy. You'd only know it from the industrial grind which makes his unrecognisable instrument a hostile force on tracks such as the mercilessly claustrophobic ‘In the Clinches'. The eerie clack and creep of keys, breathy sighs and spectral wails of ‘Like Wolves On the Fold’ meanwhile resolve into a distant bestial roar. This would all be hard to love, if it wasn't for the variety engendered by Stetson's ambition, the positive joy of which is sometimes audible. ‘Spindrift’, especially, sounds like a synth symphony. The pump of keys here recalls a church organ, the sighs are choir-like, and the high-velocity notes are held in an atmosphere of spiritual balm.