The tour-guide of empire lashes out at those “too high” to “get the job done.” Philosophy becomes moment of violence in the name of a ground/”mortar” and possessive individualism. Self-effacement a ruse and assimilation demanded via shiny, happy piano.
From the liner notes: “‘We’re gonna get together and hate the notes.'” Difficult to know which ones. Attempted hybridization of musical “worlds” results in slurring, sitar-like guitar and feedback, while drums anticipate growth of Fusion. But droning bass ostinatos allow Bloomfield to glide on the foundation for the middle seven minutes, sliding evenly between multiple nodes. Still, the problem lies in hemispheric penetration and the production of worldliness. Kind assimilation, but (buried) glimpses of borderlessness.