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Prangers’ sound is unprisable, perhaps impossible to uproot from the landscape that spawns it.

On Gomp, the Rochdale trio forge and graft a kind of sonic semblance of wire, flesh and bracken - a misshapen organism that scuttles across the damp amber of the pennines. Collected from their environment, collages of local field recordings and tape-jammed voices hang over the trio's mill-gamelan of scrap percussion, with the whole thing force-fed back on itself through a neat duality of blunt electronics and sharp sample processing.

Although the form of its language feels human, the rhythm and definition is stretched to a point of almost attractive grotesque: de-elasticated and drubbed into a curiously unrecognisable state by the busted motor speeds and over-voltaged electrics that power it.

Through the electric static of Prangers' transmit, the outline of an awesomely unsettling shape comes into focus.