When people talk about hating jazz, they will sometimes make a series of noises meant to represent the cacophonous disorder that their ears hear when the cats get to cooking. This album is what they are talking about, these sounds are the ones they are imagining and approximating. Were one in the season of charity, they'd say there's a great deal here that feels in conversation with the experimental fringe music of the now. Were one in the season of judgment, they'd say this is stoned music made for the stoned and requires deployment of An Expanded Mind, Man, to hear the notes between the notes. One in any other season will be fine to opt out of the whole conversation. All things serve the beam. Good bumper sticker, though.
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