Radio Dispatch One: Boys and girls, listen close and hold on to your pants--the individuals known collectively as The North Atlantic are awake, and they are hungry. On the eve of a new release, they can't wait to bring their sound to the masses. Into the van they go, off to make the floors shake and the walls shimmy. They've been holed up in their bunker high atop Golden Hill, biding their time, honing their sound, hammering out the formula to make the kids dance like robots and steal their uncles' cars. On a fierce diet of game theory, avante garde art, archaeology, liquor and Clash records, they have been crafting a noise all their own to share with people in the streets, the clubs, and the basements- on their bikes to and from, and in their cars on the way. Put this band in your ears, give the living room lights a tickle, drink down some corn liquor, and show your baby you've still got the moves. This is the soundtrack to God fishing in your psyche like a sour-faced barkeep fishing the last pickled egg out of a jar. The first record, Buried Under Tundra (Apple Pi Records), dark and intense, unjaded, thick and thin, fat and skinny, youthful and wide-eyed, old and drunk, is only a hint of things to come : liking lookin at the sun through a pinhole, or at least a lamp in the corner of your bedroom. With Wires in the Walls (Stay In/Get Down Records) the sound has grown even more dynamic and angular, the tones have been pinched and pushed, the lyrics have been squeezed and driven, yelled, cooed and chortled, the beat driven, jazzed up, grooved out and back again. These boys are hitting what is commonly known as their stride. So catch some shit from the cool kids and enjoy some music that is unguarded and fearless. The North Atlantic is rising. Iceland will be swallowed.