This is the album being piped through the P.A. system after organized matter stops being a thing and the cleanup crew arrives. Folks, put your cans on, and if you can't tell where the haunted house stops and the beginning of the end of the known universe starts, don't worry, you're on the right track!
Sam and Criminy Kraffft would be proud, and I declare this album to be awesome!!! Those cymbals must look shot peened after recording "Green Frog." Thanks for the tunes!
Both sides are bonafide space walks, but from 1:20 onwards it's the arpeggiatic "Satellites" that really shows what an 8-bit drill press can do for your ears! Killer!!!
Getting roundly baked and settling into a rocking chair to take in this pastoral delight, has been one of the most rewarding choices I've made in months. Years, perhaps.
Atlântico - the rotary star ladder climb that ends in a bossa nova ballroom counterweight just outside geostationary orbit - proves once again that no matter how you like your Panfilov sliced, it WILL be sliced thick.
I'm a fan of Misha Panfilov's jazzcapades. Days As Echoes is a favourite example, and now Gala! is, too. Just the right amount of wobble in this one - y'all nailed it.
The cosmic-tinged magisterial oddness of Greg Foat's solar sail-propelled space yacht takes to the stars once more, this time bearing the workprint prototype of Blade Runner wherein Darryl Hannah escapes Harrison Ford in rainy L.A. by first blending in with a midnight klezmer street band. Groovesville.
The final word in cinematic interpretations of Oberon's inaugural Dick Morrissey Memorial Cup, non-gravitational rhythm-moguls competition and afterparty. Gorgeous, all around... thanks, jazzers!
It's an album chock-a-block with groove, but the b-side is what really slips me off the docking ring. Another astrophysical jet from the inner space of Greg Foat and company!
Join Warren Hampshire, Greg Foat, and the Jedi ghosts of Eden Ahbez and Ernest Hood as they gauge the supreme vibraphonic musical potential of imperial pint dimple glass haptics. This is a delirious, warm journey.
14 delicate tracks, compressed top and bottom with sides that just go on and on. Guitar, saxophone, and a laundry sack of drums slowly mapping a low-ceilinged underground lake. This is a masterwork.
Cask-aged obnoxious! High Drag, Hard Doin'?! Sha-pow!!! Whilom is some sort of a masterpiece. So is Trash Dog, for that matter - I swear they're playing cellos, not guitars.
Dougie Poole - portmanteau of cosmic country and utter brunch of pathos - absolutely knocks this one out of the park. What a delightfully weird-ass web he's woven these past few albums, and this is the mooniest entry yet. 🌙
