(Taped Crusaders) Ruben Garcia bows to nature. The island of Lanzarote, of the Canary Islands near Africa, (apparently where its always 22 degrees, although with global warming I bet that's changing) hosts the volcanic field Timanfaya National Park. One of its craters erupted for all of six years between 1730 and, er, 1736. 600 degree natural gas lurks beneath the surface. The landscape is martian, desolate, relieved only by occasional herb vegetation sown by the wind. Yellow rocks peers like pus through swollen red volcanic hills like inflamed wounds. Sonic comrade Ruben does not such landscape down. His homage to this remarkable section of our own planet is a drone of low density and depths, invoking the hard sand and rock soil, crawling slowly to an almost casual magnificence as indifferent to stupid and petty human affairs as only Gaia in her sneering glory can be. He invokes the lava flows, the ruddy stalactites, the harsh burning fire that erupts from fissures in the ground when things fall into them, The Fire Mountains. It starts slowly, again taking the rising sun as a starting point, which then illuminates the eternal landscape. Here all you see is all there is. All you hear is the echoes of wind and sand, which Ruben does not replicate but rather invokes with his own sounds. It builds and the low red rumbles and drones are surmounted by strangely chiming sounds, as if some cosmic pomp is being heralded. We the mortal can only watch on with our small emotions, as the whole of the landscape is unveiled. It then dies down, the sun sets, the fissures settle as we are left to watch shadows lengthen; only the rumbling of intense temperatures beneath our feet remain to haunt.