This solo album by former Bananafish editor S. Glass is a recording of naturally jarring qualities and intent. The rippling, continuous pace doesn't allow a whole lot of time for sinking the talons in. Incongruous sound sources are bent, warped, wrung and wrenched between the ears, as if ones brain is an object to be flossed by Glasss quietly punishing dentists hand. Clattering machines and burnt-out organs fizz as though amplified via baby monitor. Brief, ad-hoc choirs of rendered vocals are drenched in clicky synthesis and, yeah, some train noises are even detectable in the mix. But don't for a minute ascribe his motivations to churlish desire to throw crap at a kitchen sink, then a wall, with no sense of what should stick.