The Lakes 7

Rogue West African prison-funk fromAdrianOrange and his rambling pack of peyotelaced thieves. Outlaw anthems of life on the margins; Favella-core LatinAmerican punkhymns to Qaddafi andthe insurgency. Machine gun stabs of sexand danger, love and death, life on the highway and lust in the jungles. Their public appearances have been describedas powerful, erotic, frightening, baptismal andsoul-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 haloedby a bright red beret. The stage is flanked by twomaskedwomen, who writhe to the music in almost cobra-like curls, wielding maracas like hypnotist’s charms. A lanky, handsome pianist acts as foil andsilent conductor, channeling rage and passion into his chipped, sweat-greasedkeys. Controlling the ebb and flow of danceable terror is a solidas- steel drummer who pounds and sways, buoyed by some grizzled, tequila-stained bassist, more primal creature thanman. 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. They will. Fuck, they will.