Rogue West African prison-funk from Adrian Orange and his rambling pack of peyote laced thieves. Outlaw anthems of life on the margins; Favella-core Latin American punkhymns to Qaddafi and the insurgency. Machine gun stabs of sex and danger, love and death, life on the highway and lust in the jungles. His public appearances have been described as powerful, erotic, frightening, baptismal and soul-saving/destroying. Orange, his guitar strapped tight and high, like a weapon of battle, is shadowed by a glistening, muscled Libyan who holds a very real automatic rifle at the ready, his hardened gaze haloed by a bright red beret. The stage is flanked by two masked women, who writhe to the music in almost cobra-like curls, wielding maracas like hypnotist's charms. A lanky, handsome pianist acts as foil and silent conductor, channeling rage and passion into his chipped, sweat-greased keys. Controlling the ebb and flow of danceable terror is a solid as steel drummer who pounds and sways, buoyed by some grizzled, tequila-stained bassist, more primal creature than man. At the front of this feral pack float two angels, blowing their horns for God and the Devil, as if undecided to where the group's allegiances lie. It doesn't matter, though. This incarnation of Thanksgiving is too beautiful for Heaven, and too roughly crazed for Hell. Don't try to figure it out. Just let them save you.
