Stumbled across this little delight whilst writing up the revenant sea / roadside picnic split. Initially available as a freebie label showcase CD accompanying orders placed by subscribers over the summer period, ‘summer sampler’ airs the wares past, present and future of the tape imprint Auditory Field Theory. Gathered here are eight specially selected sound cadets found voyaging aural horizons located on at the very outer posts of cutting edge and experimental sonic design. Here you’ll be greeted to the deeply transcendental Australasian dubtronic earth beat of Oliwa’s super chilled ’ocean fire’ while their second bite of the apple ‘equinox’ reveals itself as a somewhat trip-a-delic cosmic light show of sorts replete with purring trance trims that draws the invisible dots existing between an old school youthful sounding tangerine dream and a nu school voyager piloting eat lights become lights. Elsewhere the lonesome bowed opines and ice sculptured shimmer toned murmurs of the lunar glitches love note that is Susan Balmer’s delightfully arresting ‘b3 y sm’ sounds as though its being refracted through an ethereal kaleidoscope. First of two showing for this lot, the horror phonic doom drone of 6&8’s ‘iron truck’ with its disquieting subterrannic groans and scrapes is ripe for the shivering behind sofas listening in the daytime with the lights on, ‘purple’ on the other hand is lighter toned, still somewhat melancholic, the groaning head hung atmospherics shifting at almost glacial pace recalling the kind of stuff once upon a time put out by Constellation. And talking of sofas – you might want to keep in near proximity for ‘fucked up on terror’ by worm fam which on reflection isn’t as evil or menacing as the title might lead you to first believe though is still cowed by a warping oddness of a youthful Residents crookedness. So far I’ve been unable to decide whether or not Keep Sheila on acid’s ’hinterland’ had me in mind of the inner working of an extra terrestrial space craft or a subliminal message service provided for by some huge mind warping dream machine, whatever the case admirers of the trensmat imprints championing of all things strange drone – most notably – the astral social club – ought to find themselves suitably satiated. Which leaves the last call going to Takeshi Goto (Anal Rose) whose ‘hollow sound’ is exactly that, defrosting shimmering silvery orbs of minimalist electronica which starts at a point of genteel sparseness and gather in depth, dimension and density until by at its parting what emerges is a touching star twinkled symphony of adorably hiccupping shy eyed peek-a-boo effervescence.