'Hot damn,' two words we hear often enough to take to heart. We assault the stage with full frontal force, flashes of brass blind your eyes while the snare strikes tirelessly home. The guitar and bass unify to form their perfect, harmonious synergy. The volume rises to a new degree of intensity, the amplification a relentless incursion of your senses. Silence falls abruptly. The sound of raindrops splashing on a lone crash cymbal carries through, rolling ever onward.
The trumpet sounds the start of something that both enthralls and rings with effortless beauty. And like a thousand stampeding elephants, The 88's unleash their sanctimonious aural array of mellifluous perfection.
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