This one-take improvisation gives a singular context to James Allsopp's sax, his sketched compositions growing in the dank electronica of some 1980s SF nightmare, a haunted steampunk cavern with unspeakable liquids sweating and plopping from the walls. If Ridley Scott is the cinematic progenitor, with Vangelis' Blade Runner soundtrack matching Radiohead as a latter-day Euro-jazz influence, Allsopp's taste for Ligeti's brooding contemporary classical scores and, at a stretch, the live jazz dystopia of Miles' nihilistic Agharta also come to mind. It's an anti-ambient album, then, plotting disquiet not easy absorption. This stygian gloom is, though, lit by bright British wit, as with the title track's cover of deadpan Glasgow surrealist Ivor Cutler's tale of a man discovering he's a sandwich. The improvised six-part suite ‘Loftopus’ meanwhile builds steadily from a vaporous start. Ruth Goller's krautrock bass pulses are followed by feinting opposition to then shadowing of Allsopp's every worried breath on ‘Part 3’, the pair shiftily dancing like slouch-hatted sleuths. Syndrum snares pound dryly, synths squelch wetly, elephantine horns cry; Allsopp's Eastern souk sax glides over swirling electronic babble. Then in ‘Part 5’ Kit Downes gets one of his finest set-pieces on organ, duelling with Allsopp like Hugh Banton and David Jackson on some vintage Van der Graaf Generator prog storm, scaling rock-classical riffs like Keith Emerson and generally taking joyous flight, as if cracking open that darkling cave. Finding contemporary equivalence in Ståle Storløkken's wild organ rides with the likes of Elephant9, it's a satisfying climax to an exercise in improvised atmosphere.