Hampton Grease Band
Music To Eat

And please don't answer me like a priest, okay? I’m about to ask you an important question, and I’d rather you not come back with something vague like: “it's a mystery.” Please, no. Take a deep breath:

I want to know why albums like this one (an incredible masterpiece of composition, execution, creativity, improvisation, and technique, a lethal mix of Jams à la Allman Brothers Band with the lysergic compositions à la Grateful Dead and the unfeasible Dadaism of the Magic Band, whose listening is an infinite pleasure, an uncontrollable explosion of sounds to listen to a thousand times, discovering a thousand new facets each time, and a thousand new reasons to put it back on I don't know how many times, 90 minutes of absurd musical quality related even to the (dis)compositions of Pere Ubu and the shameless madness of the most eclectic Zappa; one of those albums you can't say if it's ahead or behind its time because it simply remains out of time and schemes, thrown out of the filthy logic of “How many damn records have you sold? None? Then you're worth nothing”) always have to be discovered by chance, thanks to a friend's tip, or on a dusty 70s Rock dictionary and never because they are where they deserve to be, in the Olympus of the greatest masterpieces of all time. 

And don't tell me it's a mystery, please, I've heard that one before.