Killer live record from a beloved experimental Japanese jazz outfit that helped ease me into the chaotic other side of that state of being known as music. Blithering in its serenity (if that makes any damn sense), you are subjected to batshit spaceiness in time signatures that shouldn't even be real (the keyboard driven title cut), the lovechild of Miles Davis and The Rolling Stones copulated in a bath of acid ('Tipographica's Worst Date') and, near the end of the record, stark & perfect beauty - a sort of yearning from the calls of a single saxophone into the distance of a mysterious night time city ('A Smell Of Gunpowder, And A Flavor Of She'), and thus the journey ends...only to begin again at your beck and call.
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