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Mike Donovan’s debut comes following a distinguished run of tunesmithing for noise-popster poster boyz Sic Alps, so he’s well prepared to go the solo route with a sack full of songs.

Lyrically, Mike’s sharpened the lead for a less random line drawn in the sand - allusive trips, lost in crystal canyons, turning a phrase with an acid flick of the wristwatch. Guitars intersecting in the manner of the old loom The Stones once used, weaving in blue. Where rubric becomes fabric becomes freecidelic. Confronting the empty in acrostic (inner) space, WOT is Plastic Ono dyspeptic arrhythmia. The dream is over, so he’s starting a new dream.

Your troubadour for the new era is Mike Donovan, and he captains his own ship, known to all as ‘WOT’. Stripped of electric additions and distractions, deduced to a dialog mostly, the twelve new hot mercury tunes are departing now. Leaving on a jet stream, the soul-sound dissolves in a liquid hiss.

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