The collective cacophony of a hundred-odd jack-in-the-boxes simultaneously being cranked into wakefulness by a horde of malevolent clowns whose gaunt and twisted faces are brought into sharp relief by flickering oil-lamps under the dusty drape of a tattered circus tent canopy. It is the sound of a time that never was and that never will be, filtered through the tinny twirling turbulence of an antiquated grammophone. The sound of long-forgotten toy pianos and dusty music boxes sneaking through the cracks in the attic floor. Accordions meet bass clarinets in a vague and contorted echo of a sideways glance at the future through the cracked lens of the monocle of the past. Tarnished tubas and chortling cellos blend with the cackle of a corrupt ringmaster ricocheting off the walls of an abandoned Victorian manor. A whirling frenzy of gypsy-circus-cabaret-graveyard-blues under a full moon.