Interspersed between the lilting guitars and violins are swelling gurgles of looped burbling saxophone, other figures rising to throw Dada at the audience.
The album EFA takes you right to the active volcano’s orifice, smears ritual body paint all over you, and prepares you to make a human offering to the Sun God.
There is no sane way to review this CD. 44 minutes of songs, covers, sounds and either madly witty lyrics, or stupid-as-hell stories/parodies. Or something.