Another scatterbrained Northwest nutjob unleashing a shite-storm

of disconnected clunks, thuds, hisses and squeals from an

assortment of garage sale electronics being used for so-called music

creation. Like a cartoon cigarette defying gravity as it dangles

from the lower lip of the drunken caricature- so do these creations

laughingly called "songs" .Uncaring and calloused to an audience in

general disbelief- Lounge Gizzard continues his one man crusade

to bludgeon the planet into seeing avant-garde-ism His way, and

no other. One exaggerated riff after another-mutating rhythms

compile themselves into sweet disarray, then on to a logical if not

hoped for conclusion.