This creative review probably should require some kind of editorial warning — but I’m not sure what — or why.
You wanna know what this record sounds like? Okay, stay with me. George Duke and Bitches Brew are up at the Université de Montréal music building, hanging out, laughing at 4/4 time. Since Bitches Brew is more a concept than an actual person, George can just communicate with it with his mind and by flaring his nostrils. In a series of wiggles, brain and otherwise, George says to Bitches Brew, “Yo, can you do this on your trombone?” Wng wng waaa mwubmub. Bitches Brew doesn’t say anything. Instead, he mentally commandeers a bunch of students to hook up all their pedals to all their instruments and go Wng wng waa mwubwub mwuunngg all at once.
George is all, like, “What the fizzuck? Okay, can you go this on your flute in 5/16 time? Fwee fwee zizz ziizz twiidly twaaaong. Bitches Brew materializes himself into a large dog from the stench particles in the carpet, grabs a xylophone player and sticks a flute in his nose. Fwee fwee zizz ziizz twiidly twaaaong emanates through the fetid air”.
Totally weirded out after getting nasally nose-raped by the spirit of a record from 1970, the xylophone player decides to go with it because, you know, that’s jazz. They eat some poutine spiked with mushrooms, grab their big scarves and jackets with elbow patches, and decided to get dark.
For weeks, their routine consists eating scales and wiping their asses with triplets. When their cheeks were raw beyond a cottony softness, they decide to stop. Crestfallen, each band member sheds a tear of diamonds and places it upon a sunny day.
George Duke shrugs, gives Bitches Brew a beer, and says, “Not bad. I mean, this record doesn’t sound like somebody’s maiden voyage, but what the fizzuck?”