Yeah, alright, typography, give it a rest. Merrill Garbus' musical mind is an extraordinary rainbow-coloured whirl, darting with legibility barely aforethought from African rhythms to Diplo-style worldly hip-hop moves to Dirty Projectors-like installation of the obscure and oblique in already pretty fractured grooves. The best bits run on polyphonic cut and paste jobs, off kilter rhythms barely matched to scat-sung syllables and scratchy instrumentation of varying standards of tuning. Even when it doesn't work there's the underlying assumption in the shifting tones that something is about to happen and knock the place silly. At its heights an advert for what sort of controlled mess can be created in the digital age, Garbus singing to her own tunes as things fly wildly overhead and flash like hijacked emergency vehicles.
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