Rumor has it that a baseball team still occasionally plays there. Understandably, this is the home of Fly Pan Am. Their very name suggests rusted nostalgia, cosmopolitanism, and sleek hipness. Unfortunately, Pan Am hasn't flown in quite some time. The few memories we have now are of blue stewardesses, hijacks, and disaster.
Guitars clink like windchimes over subtly rumbling bass.
Cold samples hover above the skeleton. When a female chorus suddenly appears deep in the album, it feels like a sprout in ice. Wires turn to wings. If Mogwai weren't concerned with film directors and pop stars, they might make such bold statements. Yet, arctic urban ambiance clouds the middle bulk of this album, turning the record into an unwanted lecture on art.