Herbie Hancock
Head Hunters

The mwandishi Herbert Jeffrey Hancock —the watermelon man & the great finger dancer of the Blue Note âge d'or— gathered a band of headhunters armed with percussion instruments of Mother Africa and whatever else could be used to coax the spider out of the hole (and that spider is us, lazybones elites); he made himself comfortable in front of rainforest keyboards, clavinets, synthesizers, donned a tribal mask (or a boiler with horns? both: a pressure cooker full of hyperagitated afrofunk) and began the hunting season.

A short and painless hunt, forty minutes and change of frenzy: four hunting beats recorded on PVC grooves for the heads and ears of Ubu fathers accustomed to be-bop soundscapes, airy phrasing, and lively, refined passages. He grabbed these well-dressed dandy boys by the collar and spun them well in a centrifuge, forcing them, with the unstoppable rhythm of an electric bass, to rid themselves of all rigidity, to tear their garments. These are the Seventies; this is Herbie's Africa, archaic and sci-fi:

- a mesmerizing and frantic chameleon, with relentless bass and breathless pursuit that makes the blood boil;

- a brand new watermelon man, short-circuited between Ba-Benzélé tribalism and futuristic, funky elements;

- a certain Sly (and those who understand get it), an electrifying, hypnotic, and scorching vortex;

- and finally, a vein melter, a mellifluous night-time piece from Chicago with dizzying synthetic inserts.

Fades to black, leaving a taste of madness in your mouth, a slight vertigo from spinning that messes your life up and puts it back together upside down.