This stand-alone component in an interconnected trilogy that includes Bren’t Lewiis Ensemble’s Casino Sordide and Cavoli Riscaldati is the meatish product sandwiched between – quite appropriately -- Orchid Spangiafora’s off-putting collage and promotional material for outmoded phone amplification devices.

Scenes of olde-tyme asylum hysteria and after-hours infiltration of FAO Schwarz spiral Altered-States-style into high- contrast corridors of heavily atmospheric no man’s land, until the floor dissolves and leaves all remaining objects in a void to do naught but obstruct the movement of other objects. By now, a regular listener of Bren’t Lewiis should recognize such a description not as an attempt to be poetic, but closer to literal reportage, as should be made clear by the cut-up overture “Slime Jacket,” a patchwork of high-brow lunacy, deeply irritating noise, and hushed, no-audience hotel room recital, with shout-outs from Gibby Haynes’s Bruce Lee and Candy Clark’s Mary-Lou.

In abundance are excerpts from a March 2016 appearance in the Creative Music Guild’s Outset Series at Turn Turn Turn in Portland, Oregon -- plastic egg stomps and solitary hockey ape by Gnarlos; ecto-synchronous screech from cassette players left under chairs and tables, pre-recorded by Babuna Virus, Lindy Lettuce, and The Viper; and Lucian Tielens in DJ Bruce Haack mode with his gigantic all-in-one toy console.

Highlights from No Spray 205 sessions include a marvelous solo by Tielens on popcorn box, bent Memorial Day ragas with mammoth curls, and a cut-up of a clutzy failure’s stammering death spirals sourced from a found self-help cassette. But it’s the 26-minute storage closet recording “Erika’s Last Day” that is the centerpiece of the album. From Tom Timpson on the credit card machines to newest ensemble member Count Darkula raking a window to nowhere and working cardboard tubes like Paul Lynde dry heaving into a didgeridoo, the only other source for such extended anxiety and astonished dread would be a psychic battle between a levitating junior high school shop class and a home-ec class rolling around the kitchen blind-folded. One part guerilla confinement test, one part circular firing squad, the no-instruments track boasts the wince-inducing weeent of metal clothes hangers getting dragged across a metal dowel, old doors opening and closing, the hoarse scrape of porcelain mugs and bowls grinding on a nail sticking out of the wall, the brittle clink of jars and vases rotating against one another, and the insane helium whine of sticks making frantic scribbling gestures on cardboard boxes. Slats on doors of wooden cabinets and plastic hangers are clacked; boxes of nails and screws are shaken; cans of paint, vacuum cleaner tube, metal rods and anything else that could be held onto are dropped on the floor and kicked back and forth. So, yeah, it’s a very percussive odyssey, in the same sense that a hornet’s nest thwacked moments ago with a tennis racket could also be considered percussive. Using enhanced cross-pollination techniques such as running the water in the sink and molesting components of half-built mannequins, the group passes an important milestone in their self-imposed primal grunt therapy.