Naked Truth are a kind of sweaty union between electric Miles, Pink Floyd-like progness and Crimson's industrial attack. The latter element is not surprising with Mastelotto on board, and for his sheer energy alone; Ouroboros is worth the gate money. Likewise Haynes, doused in suitably lubricious echo, recalls Miles’ mighty spirit. Quite to what end is another question: cleave through the atmospherics of ‘Rite Of Nightly Passage’ or the neurotic fragments of ‘Yang Ming Has Passed’ and you wonder if there's anything beyond the veil of theatricality. Even so, this is post-Miles music of high drama, high volume and no little accomplishment. So set controls for the heart of the sun (turned up to 11, of course): there are worse places to go.