Stalking through scrubby outer-urban woodlands, lurking in craggy caves, and ascending the monumental steps of a derelict lead mine, Lord Mongo discharges his cryptic rituals and dark imaginings. Assailed by a bloody salvo, the masked, straw-festooned shaman commands: who traded your children’s milk teeth for cold lizard boardroom smiles? 100 years of DADA. Lord Mongo needs to know your history.