Paul D. Miller, or DJ Spooky, or That Subliminal Kid, finds himself in the agreeable business of making music transcendent and of the highest form of escapism that exists out here amongst the slippery slopes, the drab particulars and the potholes. It's supremely easy to get mired in the ugly webs of our daily grindings and girdings, but as a DJ, Spooky gives us the chance to do away with the realness of our encumbrances and instead, he dumps us into a place where we've been able to forget our names, what people call us and we're disconnected to nearly everything that makes us sweat and makes our pulses quicken, our hearts to drag and weaken. Instead of growing older and sadder by the second, we're able to light out on a course that is neither plotted nor retraceable. It's just lightly there, in invisible dotted lines, meant for us solely to follow along with. Spooky begins thoughts and suspends thoughts, nimbly sewing them together into a patchwork that jumps around like our little gerbil minds jump around, skipping and darting from one pressing need or desire to another pressing need or desire - even if all that wanting and desiring is misguided. It's a swift turn and twist of movement that takes us into trippy ice storms, to the audio narration of a children's vinyl recording of an adaptation of the "Return of the Jedi" storybook, to boasting hip-hop, to burnt up and melancholic darkness, all the way into those unclassifiable moods that we slip into when we're unsure of our tense. We feel as if we're hunting down a sandwich, drunk on everything, at 4 in the morning in a still-moving-still-bustling New York City one moment and the next we're somewhere on a mountain, with a view of the chateau at the bottom of the hill and we're alpine skiing the shit out of that snowy dust.