Mars Volta man's tune-free jazz odyssey
Caned on the cobbles, feet dangling in a canal in Amsterdam, ï¿½Se Dice Bisonte, No Bufaloï¿½ (which weï¿½d like to think means ï¿½bison burger twice, no mozzarella, please, guvï¿½norï¿½) probably makes sense in the smokey room of Omar Rodriguezï¿½s psyche. To any coherent mind itï¿½s a riddle of drafty organs, wah wah and spasmodic jazz-outs which suck melody like a plague of mosquitoes. To him itï¿½s probably a masterpiece. Still, among the indulgent Hendrix-y wig-outs thereï¿½s two digestibles, the Saharan calypso of ï¿½Lukewarm Luxury Of Infancyï¿½ and the stomachable bombast of ï¿½Please Heat This Eventuallyï¿½. And, if we werenï¿½t busy wondering what heï¿½s been drinking during ï¿½Thermometer Drinking The Bussness Of Turnstilesï¿½ weï¿½d be on the blower to NHS Direct. Now, pass that bottle.