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“I’m a bit suspicious of people who go on about words all the time,” says musician-poet-multihyphenate Supreme Vagabond Craftsman (SVC), delivering snippets of spoken word in a droll monotone over a soundtrack of improvised synth and distorted cassettes, free ranging squeaks and squarks mixing over a scratchy fuzz of scene-setting pre-recorded sound. One of many similar musings—one-line thoughts situated somewhere between profound aphorism and dim-witted interior monologue—it’s a particularly funny line in part because it arrives in the middle of a performance that contains, well, a lot of words. Spluttering out sentences in a near-continual stream of consciousness, SVC’s prose style could be best described as consisting of seemingly nonsensical non sequiturs that collectively describe a worldview. Consisting largely of apparently unconnected and often incomprehensible nonsense-rhyme that verges from the very strange (“radio brain smurfs”) to the entirely ordinary (“there was a Pizza Express here”), these words are bound together by an outlook, an overarching grumpiness that connects it all."
Read full review of Supreme Vagabond Craftsman and Edwin Rostron's Phased Return on The Quietus