Hot Christ on a bike, now that’s some good fucking jazz.
This album was released back in September of last year. I completely missed it. This album passed by me like a blind goth sailor on a silent ship travelling through the dead blackness of space. I could lose points for writing about it now or not catching this shit in the first place. But, fuck it. Nothing stops me from writing about sonic waves that clench assholes and work like any good seductful jailbait does: it’s audacious, young, new, modern, and doesn’t give a flying fuck what you think.
Jason Lindner stands as bandleader and is the dude behind these slick licks. His lines fit snuggly next to motherfuckers like Thundercat, 8-bit Nintendo themes, Kraftwork, Black Moth Super Rainbow, and the melody lines from Aphex Twin. It’s a strange world of an undiluted jazz drunk without that nasty hangover to deal with afterward. Combined with the efforts of bassist Panagiotis Andreou and drummer Justin Tyson, these tunes come out with such elegance, dirt, and creativity it feels like the music 8-titted male aliens must strip dance to. I’ve heard some refer to this album as electronic, which … sure. You can call it electronic if you wanna be that dick. But, why limit what jazz can be?
There are points while listening to this album where the synth will border on some cheese. But just wait it out and give it a fucking second. Jason knows where’s he’s going. You can trust him. This album is bookended by two songs that have “buffering” in the title. Another “buffering” song is thrown into the middle for good measure. These songs are there to move your brain antennas onto their channel. Once there, they slide easily into your ears.
Many hardcore jazz heads will probably hate this album. Which, to me, means it’s working. This album doesn’t push genre boundaries, it burns them down and pisses on the ashes. But it doesn’t feel forced either. It does this in a natural way. These songs should be on every LSD playlist. In another world, this is the music of heated and sweaty dancefloors where everyone wears the same baby mask. And with each new dissonant and disorientating direction these happy-sounding video game synths take, the tension rises on this shit another 100 degrees. In the end, you can envision 8-titted male aliens strip dancing amongst a sweaty club of baby masks and everything is burning the fuck down. In other words, though this album may sound strange at first, this shit’s fire.