Two completely unknown multi-genre underground electronic producers from Dallas—whose music never escaped the purgatory of their own laptops—set out on a bargain cruise that capsized spectacularly beneath a generational tsunami. Washed up on Sentinel Island with nothing but the ruins of a MIDI keyboard and half a set of earbuds, they were immediately enslaved by the tribe and forced to produce endless tracks using coconuts for kick drums, bird screams for melodic textures, and whatever else washed ashore for percussion.

Thanks to the tribe’s flawless wireless internet, provided out of nowhere by a philanthropic donation from LeBron James, their miserable recording sessions are performed live before a hard to please chieftain whom approves their work or sentences them to death. The producers, strapped to a rotisserie over a roaring fire, scramble to finish tracks before they get literally overcooked, furiously sampling wild hog intercourse, crab shuffles and hissing cockroaches while the tribal elders critique their progress.

Sentinel Drift