Inspired by the Neue Deutsche Welle ‘scene’ of the late 70s-early 80s (bands like D.A.F. and Einstürzende Neubauten) and the futurist writer Luigi Russolo's manifesto ‘The Art of Noises’, Sextile mine the past to divine a new future for all: a mutually assured construction.

Up-front is Brady Keehn, he of the quasi-shouted goth-vox, back-up is psy-KORG Melissa Scaduto, together they’ve drawn up a sound map of spartan electronics, rudimentary drum machines and spleen-strangling invectives that structure the aural architecture, a cavernous cacophony from beneath the collapsing terrain above.

Dubterannean dancefloor quaker-shaker ‘Disco’ kicks off the monochromatic mayhem, stark and dark orchestral manoeuvring, a throbbing thrumometer of the pulsing ulcer of the new Cold War protagonists.

The duo Werk their Kraft on ‘Drop you’, a Tour de Force of incessant propulsion, jagged guitars scythe through the relentless discordant drums. ‘Paradox’ is an amphetamine-charged distant relative of Holger Hiller’s ‘Jonny du Lump’, an auto-spasmatic serenade parade that’s fit to spurt.

‘Oh my God I’ve lost my brains’ is the helpless/hopeless refrain on ‘Spun’ a 120 beeps per second mental breakdown. ‘Hazing’ is an electroclash of the millennial Blitz kids, a Fischerspooner-type last chance-dance round the edge of sanity.

As the saying goes, ‘he who ignores history is condemned to repeat it’, however, Sextile have read their texts, studied the classics and have created a new sonic template for these global gloom-doom temperatures.

Only when you’re dancing can you feel this free (of fear) to paraphrase an 80s pop-titan.

Watchword: Analogue in to avoid being locked out.