Melt Yourself Down: Pete Wareham (Acoustic Ladyland, Polar Bear), Kushal Gaya (Zun Zun Egui), Shabaka Hutchings (Sons Of Kemet, Heliocentrics), Tom Skinner (Hello Skinny, Sons Of Kemet, Mulatu Astatke), Ruth Goller (Acoustic Ladyland, Rokia Traoré), Satin Singh (Fela!). Pulled into shape by Leafcutter John.

LP: Limited Edit + CD

Melt Yourself Down is the sound of Cairo ‘57, Cologne ‘72, New York ‘78, London 2013. North and south and east and west. Horns blowing, drums vibrating, a suffocating fever dream. Primal. Vital.

This is: a journey across an ocean of sweat to a golden obelisk. In its airless catacombs, the house band from hell. MYD. Making music you can see, sounds you can smell. Vibrations you can taste. Rhythms to rearrange your DNA.

This is: a modal map, a burning passport, a trip, a banquet, a broadcast, a protest, a party, a ritual. A broadcast political. This is: music mined and hewn. Blasted and blown. A tribal war cry.

Hoodoo voodoo? They do, you do. They call it a debut. Fierce funk and punk and detonated jazz. Rhythms to rearrange the DNA. Five senses being ripped by six souls across seven continents on eight songs. Live, they’re a tropical storm lit by full-frontal fireworks, carried by a finger-pointing, proselytising equatorial preacherman spitting fire and brimstone calls that demand a response. Their message: Melt Yourself Down and turn yourself up. Get out of it and get into it.

Finally the fever breaks. The sound of moaning. Breathing. Chests heaving. Twelve white eyes, blinking. This is: imagination. Communication. Liberation. It’s just the beginning.

Melt Yourself Down is the sound of Cairo ‘57, Cologne ‘72, New York ‘78, London 2013. North and south and east and west. Horns blowing, drums vibrating, a suffocating fever dream. Primal. Vital.

This is: a journey across an ocean of sweat to a golden obelisk. In its airless catacombs, the house band from hell. MYD. Making music you can see, sounds you can smell. Vibrations you can taste. Rhythms to rearrange your DNA.

This is: a modal map, a burning passport, a trip, a banquet, a broadcast, a protest, a party, a ritual. A broadcast political. This is: music mined and hewn. Blasted and blown. A tribal war cry.

Hoodoo voodoo? They do, you do. They call it a debut. Fierce funk and punk and detonated jazz. Rhythms to rearrange the DNA. Five senses being ripped by six souls across seven continents on eight songs. Live, they’re a tropical storm lit by full-frontal fireworks, carried by a finger-pointing, proselytising equatorial preacherman spitting fire and brimstone calls that demand a response. Their message: Melt Yourself Down and turn yourself up. Get out of it and get into it.

Finally the fever breaks. The sound of moaning. Breathing. Chests heaving. Twelve white eyes, blinking. This is: imagination. Communication. Liberation. It’s just the beginning.