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It starts off in a detective’s office somewhere downtown, with busted door handles and a conspicuous looking stain in the middle of the worn-out rug that was left by the previous tenant (an alcoholic lawyer from out of town). The smell of boiled eggs, cheap smokes and a dead hitman lingers in the air, with the shells of boiled eggs, cheap smoke ends and a dead hitman lingering on the floor next to the desk. The lamp dimly blazes, lighting up one corner of the room, while the flickering street lamp does the rest of the work… You put your tie straight, light up a smoke and think of Miss Vanlitz, the new dancer at GG’s joint. Then, as those banging sounds from the ceiling begin to hit away at your patience for another night running, a loud crack at the door sends your hands and the cheap shot glass your left hand was cradling into the air… They’ve come, haven’t they? And as the door opens with a long wooden sigh, a bean shooter comes gliding its way into your office-come-apartment. It’s aimed at your head, and as your eyes focus on the very real threat to your life and your next appointment at GG’s booked for ten past midnight tomorrow, you realise that it isn’t the lounge lizard you thought it was, but is actually an aggravated giant swan.

He comes in, he forces you back down into your chair with wheels on causing you to skid to the window with a thud. He holds you down. He takes your arm and rolls up your sleeve. And he produces a needle and jabs it swiftly into your arm before you can say ‘shee?’. From fright, confusion as to what a giant swan with a gun is doing in your office and sheer anger at being injected with a mystery liquid, you lash out with all your might, barge past his protesting wing and hit the streets, cursing all the way and beginning to feel…something from the drugs.

From there, the chase is on. The stuff he injected you with hits you hard and you come crashing through the side alleys like a dead man walking. Are you zotzed? Probably are… Probably will be.

…Whatever is going on, this piano-twisting, reality-buggering soundtrack doesn’t bloody help, does it.

Seriously, are Huw and Peter of Everything We Love And More serial killers? Surely, if you had to go through the task of rehearsing, mixing, producing and touring (to whatever extent) with these audio shards of glass, body parts and mystery doors that drop you into the lower intestines of a dead clown, then you would be on a one way ticket to perfect paranoia, or taking out your confused feelings of the man following you on the man sitting behind you on the 5:23 to Paddington.

This is: insomnia, dread, noir (as if you couldn’t have guessed from the above audio prose rendition/interpretation), despair, quirky joy, off-beat elation and art begging to be ripped apart and spoken about. Never has there been a CD that has graced this here cluttered desk that is in more need of interpretation, because this breed of expressionistic jazz loves it when you get all arty. For something that hops, skips and jumps all over the bass and piano, you need to start treating it like a postmodern art piece that was made by mixing paint together in a vat and throwing it out of a warehouse punch gun and onto a canvas the size of a house. For those that aren’t willing to evaluate the piece, it is merely an expensive mess. For those that require a vehicle to separate them from lesser being and thus create a false hierarchy of artistic snobbery (‘well of course I understand what he was trying to say here. Don’t you?’), then this would be ideal for all the wrong reasons.

But, my friend, will you ever make it to GG’s? Well, errr, yes. At around half way through track 3, until the swan spots you at the table and the heat is on again. Those damn whhhacky guys.