Pan-O-Rama finds the boys stretching that sound in every possible direction: twisting, tearing, and using the shreds to drag a wide swath of techno history into the future (and, just maybe, to drag a few pieces of techno future back into the past). Call it minimal if you must, but this ain’t no clickity-clack shit. Even if Pan-Pot do excel at the clickity-clack, rackity-racket, which infuses track after track on Pan-O-Rama with their signature convulsive shudder. You can hear the agonized gurgle of isolationist acid, reminiscent of Plastikman’s darkest nights. You can hear the percolating urgency of classic bleep techno. Tried and true hardware collides with restless digital experimentation as dance music’s DNA worms its way into twisted new shapes. Pan-O-Rama is dark, that’s for damned sure. Eerie vocals that seem to come from within the listener’s own head creep across the stereo field. (Don’t let mystery collaborator Hugh Betcha’s name fool you—judging from his paranoid muttering on “Charly,” he won’t be appearing in any romantic comedies any time soon.) Throughout, restrained minor-key melodies conjure 21st century noir, and a relentless low-end rumble seems to suck up all the light around it.