Excess and groove at war, but groove wins—a voodoo charm that actually works.
Rahsaan Roland Kirk by 1975 had already spent two decades proving he could play anything and play it well. This double LP, with its famous blank fourth side, arrives at a point where he'd stopped trying to prove anything to anyone. The groove is what matters here, and that's a statement of purpose as much as a sonic choice.
The album works because Kirk trusts the pocket. Tracks like the opening stretch show a band locked in—strings, horns, drums, all serving the swing rather than competing for space. The arrangements breathe. There's none of the cluttered density that sometimes buried Kirk's best ideas on earlier sessions. Instead, he moves through these grooves with real clarity, his saxophone work sharp and singing even when the band gets tight and funky. Between tracks, he talks to the listener—rambling, joking, keeping it personal and weird in a way only Kirk could. It shouldn't work, but it does.
AllMusic gave this four stars, and that rating holds up. This isn't a record for people who want Kirk tamed or made palatable. But it's also not the virtuoso showboat some feared. It's a mature artist who'd made peace with what he wanted to say, moving through a groove so large and deep that everything else—the commercial pressure, the need to innovate constantly—just falls away. That's harder to do than it sounds.