Laser-targeted at fans of the artists formerly known as British Sea Power, a history, or maybe more a memoir, of a sound which feels like a thing from deep time, but really was only current for a little over a century, and of debatable use even then. The slippery slope argument transposed from drugs to experimental music, where working for The Wire leads Allan to seek out harder and harder stuff until only foghorns will scratch the itch. An exploration of the subjectivity of sound, where the great horns can sound lonely or reassuring, romantic or life-ruining, according to the context and frequency of an individual's encounters. Digressions into everything from mythical bulls to HAARP conspiracists, most of which do convince as belonging here, although the attempts to reckon with colonialism, while undoubtedly well-intentioned, seldom feel altogether integrated. The register is often poetic, and successfully so, but I suspect my favourite bit may nevertheless have been where the oft-retailed story of the foghorn's origin turns out to be exactly the same flavour of bullshit as the scene in every music biopic where they write the hit. But then amusing scenes like that, or San Francisco being recalcitrantly and uncharacteristically fog-free when Allan visits, run up against the sheer spookiness of the horns' sounds, or a startling series of synchronicities (Dungeness lighthouse; the Chevrolet Nova; writer and arse Gertrude Atherton - all had popped up in entirely unconnected contexts over the last few days, and here they were again). Probably the best metric on which to judge this strand of non-fiction is how well the author's obsession rubs off on the reader, and certainly by the end of this I found myself wanting to attend one of the grand, ridiculous site-specific musical performances including foghorns which top and tail the book.