In rejection of the notion of ‘immaculate reproduction’, live performances from Paddy’s own project err more daringly and admirably on the frontier of chaotic abstraction, expression and focussed blunder, dice rolling down the hill in case of duende, as from behind his stacked array of instruments, the anarchically intrepid punk gargles through a vocoder with his xylophone, all a-clatter under disco lights and doilies.
He creates his tools, as he creates his craft, here from scratch, there from new, ever from long-garnered experience that includes running the massive ensemble Homelife, years hence. In style he is unique on the circuit that knows him, on which similarly his blinkered resolve and capacity to create must be unparalleled.
This has been reduced down over a long period of time, and applied coat by coat with subtle mastery, for richness, depth, and vivid texture, as if it were some magnificent curry, or a samurai sword. Lounge, romp, deep groove, homely and galactic-expedition whimsy, furry electronic invention, it feels akin to playing and winning a computer game made from reality, to hear.