The Flying Luttenbachers
Destroy All Music

OK, enough with the sob-ballads, now I'm offering you a nice "off" album. The Flying Luttenbachers are a power trio (ultra-drums, guitar, and saxophone) that plays death-jazz, a mess conceptually indebted, at least, to John Zorn's Naked City, with usually very fast rhythms and a free sound where a honking sax often takes the forefront.

In short, imagine sitting on the toilet and being sucked down the drain... imagine ending up in a muddy river in flood, and the scenario will start to match the music in question.
Clinging to the inner tube of a tire, you begin to be dragged by this dark and impetuous sound-current: often the current accelerates, and you grasp little of what's around you, of the (musical) debris being dragged along with you; sometimes more evident are sax thrusts-wooden trunks popping up and sinking back into the muddy water ('Fist Through Glass'). Confused, you happen to reach slightly quieter stretches, where your attention is drawn by guitar-plastic milk phrases and various trash blocking up against a bridge pillar, the tension increases with the pile-up of stuff (the guitar whines), until the current prevails and clears the jam ('Sparrow's Thin Act').
On the shores, gypsies camp out roasting who knows what on their barbecues ('Splurge'), further on, dogs bark and howl at you, like at a car racing through the night.

Your companion on this epic journey is, for a while, the corpse of a funk musician ('Verlaug aus den Turbo-Scratcher'); besides, if the river is the Volturno, it's possible that someone is being killed not far from the bank, then burying the body in some pine grove cemetery of the Camorra ('The Necessary Impossibility of Determinism'). At this point, among shady mature men caught in impure acts ('Tiamat en Arc'), you've reached the mouth and can catch a bus that takes you back home, it's not even important to freshen up, as, at most, the inspector will have to argue with the contingent of African prostitutes, whom he hates.
You've reached the end of your reverse Conradian excursion: if it's not enough, flush again...