This journey begins with ominous drones. Long sustained signals. An eerie mewing that sounds like kittens lost in space. These sequences spin backwards and forwards set against a buzz of low frequency oscillations. Morphing first into flocks of swooping birds, before transforming into something more melodic. Symphonic. Tangerine Dream first mapped this void on Zeit.

A Sci-Fi movie sample announces a slow, rolling rhythm. Its pulse eventually augmented by broken beats. Drums like debris caught up in zero gravity’s, infinite drift. Percussion, momentarily, turns tribal, and synths take on the piercing tone of ancient reeds. Echoed, solitary sonar blips demonstrate the depths at which we are travelling.

This, too, then runs in reverse and then fades into gurgling bottom end modulations. Summoning a stoned emptiness of existential questioning. A slightly spooky child’s voice leading the way, back through the maze of a derelict memory palace. Deliberately referencing Alien’s “haunted house in outer space”. The initial creepiness yielding to a familiarity forgotten. Like entering rooms that have remained unvisited for years.

NASA / Tranquility Bass-like transmissions criss cross kosmische melodies and bass arpeggios. Sharing the information that we are “205, 000 miles from Earth”. Whistles rush like solar winds. Sometimes simple key refrains are our only guide. The now cinematic march hitting sections of ceremonial, ritual vocals and then layers of bustling bodies, people at play. Raising a Tower of Babel. Building to the ambience of a field recorded warehouse rave. A brief burst of techno trance dance wild abandon that slips, segues back to the soothing, calming serene.

Suspending time and reality, the final segment reprises the second, which feels far more comfortable upon its return. Pizzicato string patterns falling like footsteps amongst the sampled, fragmented cosmology and philosophy. Full-on flotation tank gear, while cut from similar sonic cloth, a voyage so deep it makes even The Orb’s most out there moments seem like pop.

– Rob Harris, Ban Ban Ton Ton, 9.2.26