Kermit Ruffins, “Panama”

DIG: a supposedly psychotic solipsism, a possibly-pathetic peon to my self-importance and/or your Rosetta Stone to lurid languages and tortuous tongues of maniacally manic music….

Today, Kermit Ruffins! Today, “Panama!”

It’s a blast— that boss wailing trumpet, it cooks, it cools, it cooks and so oooon… the ballsy blasting brass that boogies boldly…the earthbound can’t dig it, cutie…  you, me, we’re in orbit jack…!

“Panama,” the New Orleans march, a good jam, no vocals, which make songs soggy and sluggishly sanctimonious….

Let’s dissect this daunting delicacy… this unearthly, unplugged vigorous virtuoso of wild unwavering wow….

1:21– serenely serpentine clarinet solo!

1:58– lazily laconic, morosely melodic ‘bone… taking time, lounging low and loose… suavely smiling through the solo!

2:36– Kermit horn, honking heavily yet handily, decadent and dextrous, a trenchant trill to end, making way for:

3:13– infectiously iridescent ivories, white and black keys kowtowing considerably  comically to no one… and their tribe, and their tribe’s tribe… fuck all y’all, Clyde….

You’ve heard enough, I’ve said enough– I’m a agitate some gravel….

Buy you som dat: give Kermit some nuggets– amazon




Note: best enjoyed with Jaxx. Can’t adhere to that admonishment? Acquire some Abita.

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