Tell me whose baritone fell over

intermission gavel, vroom gallop vindicate obvious traces gone, delving into a kale and cauliflower existence, murching viliums of whole egg personell coarse salt vanities, an umbilious virtue, pack-tickling distance credits along a burbank toilet bowl afternoon, pugnacious little furrballs kipping their sanguine laddersnouts acrime a bigwheel track whose loop de loop plunked our little car into the drink, sinking sailing, glubbing out its last breath of air, wheels go round and round, up and down, all through the town, inhale that musty garsconza telebrium, its all that is known of your entity.

"A dolorous line that has the same flavor as Ornette Coleman's more moody work . . . . a frenzy of overblowing that evolves into a weird mix of Ayleresque cries and space-yodelling in the Leon Thomas tradition . . . . . Wilkinson is a saxophonist whose work is on a par with Charles Gayle, David Ware, Peter Brötzmann or any of the other heavyweight reedmen who are still playing hard and free. I can think of many young American conservatives who would do well to have their heads shoved deep into the bell of his baritone for a season or two." Byron Coley FORCED EXPOSURE