I’ve been warned about albums like this one.

There are frequencies in this world that cause disruption. There are theoretical infrasonic frequencies that can make a motherfucker shit themselves. I’m not kidding. Shit’s called the brown note and it’s somewhere between the frequencies of 5 and 9 Hz. High volume bass notes have caused lung collapse in concerts, especially for those tall, thin, and smoking fuckers. You know, sex symbols. I’ve heard of bass notes that could shake the very foundations of brick homes and cause that shit to collapse. When the ground shakes from thunder, it’s an international, possibly intergalactic, sign to all multicellular organisms to get the fuck out. Your skin reacts in hair-raising tingles when you turn that corner and hear the throaty bass of a hungry dog, gunshots, or a cannon. It’s that bass that indicates where the hungry, the insane, and the dangerous are.

I’ve been warned about albums like this one.

But nobody ever warned me about Theon Cross and his motherfucking tuba. From the first note, you know what this shit is all about. When I listened to it, it got hold of me instantly. It grabbed hold of something ancient within my human body and got me moving like I was dancing for rain. My face cringed in that “oh fuck ya” way like I just went down on a slutty lemon. Oh fuck ya, that’s one nasty lemon. That’s because this bass is the sweet shit. It gives ya sparkles in your gut, a smile on your face, and gets your feet tapping. I look over to that shiny bass dome of the tuba and go, “My-my tuba, I’ve never seen you quite like this before. It’s like, how-do-I-say-this, like I’m seeing you for the first time and I’m going to lick your bowl clean out.” And then I lick my lips like a fanged succubus on spring break and MDMA. This album doesn’t just make ya dance, or help redefine an ever-shifting genre, it makes the tuba look sexy as all fuck. That’s right. That big plonky motherfucker that the chocolate-addicted German exchange student played in grade school is now the centrefold of hotdamn!

You may not recognize the name Theon Cross at first. But you may recognize the band name Sons of Kemet. Theon is one of those sons on Sons of Kemet tearing shit up like it’s a high school house party gone wild. If you take Cross and add talents like Nubya Garcia, Moses Boyd, Wayne Francis, Artie Zaitz, Tim Doyle, and Nathanial Cross, you get this album. This shit is hard-hitting and will make you dance as if it’s gotta shake the very earth you are standing on. I’ve been warned of albums that can inspire the youth of a generation. I’ve been warned of albums that can walk through the streets, without any electronics, and still say their piece. I’ve been warned of albums from the jazz age that got people thinking for themselves instead of that cut’n’dry overproduced garbage that continues to flood the radio to this day. I’ve been warned of music like this, and so have you. And neither of us should give one flying fuck what the warnings say and jump into jazz with both feet. Cause this shit? It’s got something to say. And this sexy tuba rumble is causing some disruption.