USA, 1980, jazz-rock
Jazz-rock doesn’t cover the music of this album, for Hampton isn’t afraid to dip his fat fingers in a lot of genre pies, even straying into psychedelic folk territory. Right off the bat, the comparisons to Zappa are inevitable, but that feeling goes away pretty quickly as the album descends into wonderful absurdity (as in, chopped up meaningless lyrics). You’re gonna need some kind of Rosetta Stone to figure out what he’s singing about. I always listen to this album standing on my head with my legs crossed. Your poses may vary.
Museum Musica 