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Title: talk about navel-gazing...
Review: Okay already, I'm convinced you have chops! You don't have to keep trying to impress me...or each other...or yourselves...This album encapsulates the fatal flaw of jazz music, the element that is relegating it to the dustbin of history: form over substance. Nobody will care about the technical achievements of these guys in 100 years (not many do now except those who confuse self-obsession with depth). There are moments, especially the middle section, where Coltrane and co. hint at some melodic structure, some level of aesthetic appeal, but inevitably a stylized flourish ruins everything. I suppose it's good that someone pushed the 'repetitive droning and squawking' envelope, but do you really want to listen to him do it?Art reaches out, speaks to the universal, appeals to the heart. Jazz excludes, speaks in code, demands analysis. I prefer art.
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