BLACK BANANAS

Slide one. Tall, striking, walking down the street, big hat over fringe, fringe over eyes. Slide two. Jeans with masking tape, shades, girl says to me, she's disgusting, she hates her audience, yeah, I say, you gotta problem with that. Slide three. Worse for wear here, peroxide, knocking back champagne, dancing, not singing, while the band go through their motions. Slide four. Furred up, hitting it, more beers backstage, she says to the organiser. Cops got in the car, put the blue light on the roof. Walkie talkie says she might be in the gold encrusted arcade, near the casino, on the boulevard, know what I'm talking about, you been there.

Those cats are cooking, Miles might say. But they are frying through a muggy mix. And that mix isn't accidental, keeping you removed, distancing the listener to the funked, metal frayed dynamics. Sure, the call-outs, filth melt guitars, elastic bass and aroma of zonked heat recalls George Clinton's endless empire. Though Herrema's couch empress struts in time to her own distinctive, asphalt ideology. Side A is effortless, not songs, blurred mood. Side B is memory, when the guests left the party.