Did you have trouble finding the Foundation? No doubt you were lured by those piano lines, those minor key chords waltzing through the streets of Bristol. Come, meet me at the landing; our founder Matt Elliot favored it during his days in Flying Saucer Attack. Have you heard the disembodied vocal sample that has appeared and reappeared time and again? Surely, it's tucked deep in your mind like a repressed memory. You remember it from the Peel Sessions record, when it sang on "Some Pitying Angel," and from Little Lost Soul, on the track called "Lost." This sweet voice has returned, like a will o' the wisp come to lighten the murky swamp, on "La Dispute," a remix of a work by French filmscorer Yann Tiersen. A haunting melody, to be sure, with accordion underlying... but those lyrics! "So you say the world is lonely/ You are alone..." But our Mr. Elliot was always the dramatic one, wasn't he?

My lass, you seem familiar with the reconstruction work done at the Foundation. In each room, you'll find a client in search of a certain inner nature which yearns to be brought to fruition. Take, for example, Tarwater here in the parlor. Their original piece, "To Describe You," charmed and delighted with reminiscences typical of the Berliners: a distorted echo, metallic in timbre, a mellotronic flute melody, and the whispered song title. Mr. Elliot took these ambient whims and condensed them, feeding locomotive drum breaks that pick up speed and threaten to careen off the tracks. Hold the handrail, dear, as we descend.

An early diagnosis: you suffer from rhythmic redundancy, a condition brought on by exposure to generic brand beats. Urchin did much the same, until Mr. Elliot had a brush with "Snuffed Candles." Trip-hop drums once crippled with age have become limber! Sub-bass hits looped with crisp toms whirl madly around, thrusting digital snarls and scratches into the air! He applies more of a sweeping motion to the "Remote Viewer," however, brushing together various strands of antique acoustics and digital detritus, and watching them eddy about. One feels distracted, constantly casting eyes about as if having imbibed a tincture of laudanum... oh, but rest assured, love, the sweet taste of this melancholy equals the bitter.

Some of our guests require more delicate handling than others. Inevitably, extreme methods must be resorted to. Mr. Elliot was recently visited by British comedic prankster Chris Morris, for instance, and the two concocted a disturbing brew. It begins not unlike Spring Heel Jack's twisted take on those Tortoise fellows, with ominous bass hearkening back to the Third Eye Foundation's jungle period. Soon, imbecilic stammering and demonic squeals (minions seemingly sampled from Morris' voice) give rise to a clamor, buffeted about by a repeating steel drum sound. During Blonde Redhead's stay here, the opposite pole was reached-- "Four Damaged Lemons" strips to nothing but sepia-toned piano, drone and Kazu Makino's strangulated cry. At the Foundation, one must delve to emotional depths, even revel in them, before rising. Listen to her defeated warble: "Don't be a fool, make it easier/ You learn to say when/ Signal when you can't breathe no more..." Delicious.

You may realize I've been referring to Matt Elliot in the past tense. He has not left us, but this collection of collaborations will be his last as the Foundation. He has a boy now, you see, and intends to leave the gloom behind. The remix of Faultline's "MUTE" reveals the cracks along which his identity has split. Massive, pane-shaking, stone-cracking drum and bass emanates throughout, the only overt evidence of his Ghost album. You'll also find splinters of his guitar strewn in wild electric torrents, a remnant of his early "Semtex." But all things must pass, and rumors abound that his next project will abandon both for a more positive, uplifting approach.

So settle back, child, the final number is a special treat. Acoustic frets sharply struck combine with rumbling, haphazard percussion for a hiccuping rhythm. A woman known only as Glanta lays her velvet rasp atop the slow groove, as compelling as any swing-period chanteuse. She sings of a party during which her urges get the best of her, specifically the libidinal gyrations often justified as the "dance." A moment of déjà vu-- this is a Jonathan Richman cover, though Glanta is more convincing, I think: "I've got them all in my trance, when I dance." It is hard to deny the hypnotic nature of the constant skip-scratch of needle drawn across vinyl. The fuzzy purr of the phonograph production wraps around you like a lover's arms, pulling you down into its bed. Tomorrow, we'll work on what ails you; for now, just listen. You'll sleep well.

-Christopher Dare