Hey, Lawrence. Forget for a moment the rich history and politics and positive "consciousness" attendant with afro-funk. Instead, just picture the honkiest honky you know. Maybe that soul-patched college kid in the Barenaked Ladies shirt who, being all Midwestern, can't even tell his mama he loves her. Now, picture that cat throwing the fuck
down, all right? Because when
Antibalas -- African by way of Brooklyn, funky by right of God, Allah, or whatever deity's playing deadbeat dad with your particular sect -- barrels through town, any ass not shaking is an ass underground. We're talking blasting horns, chicken-scratch guitars, percussion that's really percussion and not just some stooge with too many drums. We're talking 12-minute jams and chants that'll scrape your throat red. We're talking -- seriously, here -- the funkiest thing this boy's ever seen. You could be Ralph Reed, Wendell Anschutz or Larry goddamn Flynt and you'll still be up and down and getting to it.
