Whoa hay! Whuh. Sic Alps keep churning like charred butter, a little slit in the cap on top of the cat revealing the tricks from the sleeves you can't keep down. Again and again, they slap your wrists and elbows like the laughing hyena's panting tongue. But for all the little teasers and pleasers we've had since 2011's Napa Asylum, via the seven inchers and extended plays, it's durn near time for a newborn long player, ain't it? Sho' is! Wouldn't ya have it, one's a-comin'! Sounds lots like what you know and love, but hell if there ain't twists and turns quite unfamiliar to the usual Sicnoise and Alphrase. Sure, yer used to the noise string makes, but are you used to the strings on this rare roast? Not so sure. Yuh, guitar is ever present, but you may notice sum cello, violin, or two or four in there, too. Not least of which is surely a piano, more prominent that pastly excursions. Undeniably, it's the Sic brand to which your teenage-self subscribes- the album's a Self-Titled jam- as what's heard like while using your new, grown-up body. Sic Alps doin' Sic Alps. Newly-celled skin on vintage bones inside hot flesh and artery frags. Skin cream. Er, listen to the first track off it, "Glyphs!" And get ready for Sic Alps S/T cum September 11!