Drenching the north of England in subterranean drones since 1996, Jazzfinger are at last receiving deserved recognition for their minimalist methodology and maximal aural outcomes. Sat cross-legged, backs to the audience in reverence to their bank of Marshalls, Gaylani, Jones and Wilkinson use the lowest of lo-fidelity tools: pick-ups on cheap guitars, bows, dictaphones, an old gong, older cymbals, walkie talkies and tapes all merge into a subsonic sludge of mass hypnosis. Finally ears are opening and labels like Mallard Lake, Seed and Beta-Lactam Ring are giving their recordings belated shelf space.
As DJs, their compulsive audiophilia makes them the perfect sound system for any explorative musical event. Years behind record shop counters, promoting gigs, running their label Classic English Womb and generally being, erm, obsessive has lefts their brains resident in mass crates of vinyl you've never heard but know instantly will achieve some kind of ideal.