What is the title Bish Bosch trying to communicate? Is Scott Walker trying to suggest that this material was tossed off in an afternoon? Or maybe it’s ironic, as it is so onerously and meticulously stitched together. No, this reeking pot of liquor, boiled down bouillon of farts and gonad (seriously, check the lyrics), is a playful beast, and not at all miserable. Bish Bosch (Bosch doubling as reference to the 15th century painter of phantasmogoria) is the sound of ones shit being slapped up on a wall writing the words ’Har fucking har’. It’s Lear at the height of his infantile madness in the wind and rain. Walker is a man out of time, utterly free of financial confine (we truly hope) and here he commits the lyrical ravings of a brain in liquid suspension, committed to spinning questions around itself into infinity, utterly lost in a reverie of its own logic. A brain with no body, the utter defeat of Cartesian mind body duality. The elements are very discrete and simple, a percussive thump and disconnected bowed tones, silence, loud and quiet volumes (think you know dynamic range….well check this for VERY LOUD then VERY QUIET). This can very happily be filed alongside Diamanda Galas, Stockhausen or Harrison Britwhistle which is where Walker surely sees himself. Not that we think he cares. A living enigma.