left handed music rising out of Ireland, dipping down through a ringing bouzouki on a mellow bass into africa and france, the whistle cutting up and out against the scat singing voice, tunes familiar turning strange blue latenight smoke and the clear lucid light of dawn sax and sex, the curl of it the figure followed in and through itself and out again, the dance of feet and thought the soft-palmed drum leading and comforting free mind, free pulse, the sap of tradition strained through latenight africa, moon over seashore ireland and the curfew calling over neon city streets. breath it. - Theo Dorgan (c)