Presente: BIG DRIFTY. It’s jazz.
Or not. It really is retroscapist rock-jazz fusion, standing on the halfway line between sweaty blues & robot farts.
There’s the band. With instruments & all.
Drum track contains more dots than my shirt, and way more Onyxia should’ve had on.
Synthesizer goes squeak & bass is boring.
There’s also a guitar. Or several if you count in all the octaves & bits of delay.
That’s it. It’s jazz. Jazz that.
So, a while ago I had a bad week.
You know, cutlery escaping my grasp, making violent sound when they hit the floor. Really bad weather, causing commuter train to stop for 40 minutes on an exit, that’s one before my destination. General trouble with humans, small animals & aliens.
And most of all, terrible football results.
Then I decided, I think it was already thursday, that I’m done with this week, and lo and behold, NO MORE BAD WEEK.
I also turned thursday to friday, which helped.
This here is the kind of post, that usually starts with me saying: “I’m not an expert on (add variable), but…”.
… There doesn’t seem to be any workaround, so here we go again:
“Ahem. As you may have guessed, I’m not an expert on Slavic folk music. However, I dare to say, that this time I’m much less of a complete dimwit, compared to when I’ve been messing with, let’s say Polynesian or Malian music.”
Why is that?
Simple matter of geography and cultural leakage.
This ain’t no Down by the River… or it is… DOWN BY THE DNEPR, to be exact.