The needle drops and burrows into the grooves. A set of sturdy and robust lungs starts ripping greasy lines of biting sax-squeal in a total '68-riot style -- pure nervous anticipation. Soon after, another agitated dude begins stabbing and poking his drums without rest. Both just keep bulldozing these scorching chunks of authentic fire music through my hapless little speakers. Who knew Sacramento was home to such a passionate and combustible free-jazz duo called Klondike & York? No time for answers because this record is only getting weirder and a whole lot louder as the free-form skronkfest butts heads with shuddering waves of synthesizer that are twice as loud as all else. Then somebody -- I don't know who -- starts rabidly howling and growling because these freaks have been whipping up a frenzied rumpus for nearly 20 uninterrupted minutes. Oh, wait -- that somebody is me. And why are my pants around my ankles? I must be really digging this racket.
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