What isolation inspires is what Walls captures. A quartet of young non-Mancs beholden to post-performance for an undivided past; mongo-beat slaves in (and to) a sincere place of revisionist zeitgeist. Keaton Bassett lays a thick vocal fabric, multidimensional in a nuclear sunlight — and the light’s brighter. In all ways, music hardened from what might be generations of reflection rings with undisturbed nascency. This sooty pantomime — not time after time, but this time — plays in front and inside us. Slick packaging, Zappa rendition, GRIP.