There’s a distinct turbulence frothing in Manchester. Not the sideways forever-rain or the static hum of a post-industrial hangover, but something stranger, lither, and more evasive. Enter MLEKO: a seven-piece. They twist, howl, and hold you over the edge with ever-so-slightly clammy hands. Beauty crosscut with beast and a side of sincerity... lathered in levity.