This solo offering from Les Claypool has a lot in common with nearly any Bootsy Collins album you might choose. It’s a collection of meandering jams, noodling around heavy bass riffs that just sort of repeat ad infinitum. The instrumentation leans toward, well, exotica, employed merely for novelty effect. But what places the album above the ramblings of an overly-ambitous local band are the stellar production values. I don’t mean to slam this album. It’s enjoyable to a degree. But I don’t expect to give this more than one listen.