I know, I know. I know before you even wrinkle your lips what you're going to say. You're reading the name of this band, shaking your head in vague recognition, and then scrolling down the page only to realize that not only is this the third Lucid Nation review on this site - it's also the third one written by yours truly. And you're thinking to yourself, Isn't she a little biased? Shouldn't she be finding other bands to rip or dish?

Well, my response to you is HELL NO! As far as I'm concerned, Tamra Spivey and crew deserve as much exposure as they can get. And if you've listened to this record - which is a live jam session on California's KXLU - for just one minute I think you'd agree with me. In fact, I'm so confident about this that I'm willing to pull out the ratty dollar in my pocket, slap it on the desk in front of me, and gamble that you'd be hooked after only a thirty second pause.

That's all it would take.

Just cock your ears and sponge up the drippings of this blues/jazz/funk/punk hybrid. I guarantee you'll be disarmed when you hear how fluidly Tamra is able to shift from velvety kitten, to whispery breeze to snarling banshee without sucking in a breath. And I'm just as confident you'll fall in love with the noisy, saxy, beautiful wailings keeping perfect step with her as she stomps her way through 10 seamless tracks of feedback and improvisation. There was so much flow on this album I had to hang onto my headphones to keep from being swept away by the rowdy musical tides.

My favorite track was probably Shell only because I didn't think it was possible to have a track any more intense than the slew of mind blowing episodes I'd heard on their previous album Suburban Legends. And since I'm on the subject of intensity, Pimpin also had a nice hot water on cool skin sort of feel to it. The simmering crescendo got me listening again and again, each time feeling sorrier and sorrier for the narrator who was so desperate to be somebody, so eager to leave her fingerprints on the map even if it meant begging and pleading and rambling like a broken dishwasher to do it.

But don't get me wrong. This record isn't all about jungle drums and angry guitars. Coyote has the lulling reverb of an electric blanket, and the vocals on Night Prowler coated my insides the way only a good glass of milk can.

With all that said, I think it would be best that I now step back and hold out my hand to collect that dollar you owe me. I know you haven't listened yet, but there's no need to. I never gamble on music unless I know for sure that I'm going to win.