There was a period some years back when a pal of mine would receive regular phone calls from Mr. Doyle. You would assume that taking to one of the more revered living free jazz giants would be pretty interesting, but Arthur Doyle is apparently a dirty old man. Rather than talk business (my friend put out one of his records) Doyle was only interested in trying to have phone sex with my friend's wife. I'm not sure if this makes me like him less or more. As expected you get some pretty heavy blowing that strikes at the ear drums with sadistic revelry. But what makes this one worth it is the unexpected bizarro vocalese. A pretty fucked cover of Groovin' (now titled Grovery) is a prime example of how a bum singing on a street corner can sometime sound like an angel (albeit one fucked to high heaven).