Make no mistake, Morris Pert is one of the world's more respected percussionists. He is to progrock what Ray Cooper is to pop: highly regarded, in demand, and accomplished in no small manner. You wouldn't guess that from this silky New Age pap, though. Buckyball's a good label, but this isn't going to be one of their banner releases...at least I hope it won't be, not when they house the world's greatest bassist, Percy Jones, one of the coolest keyboardists ever, Robin Lumley, and a killer fusion ensemble, Tunnels. But…Desert Dances? It's, at best, facile, thin, goopy, Hearts of Space loopy, and the unliving equivalent of a DX7 zombatron. Expect writers like John Diliberto to stroke out over it, but also register no shock when serious buyers start returning it in droves. 'Member seeing all those vinyl copies of Frampton Comes Alive in the record bins?
Don't look for Pert's old Suntreader, Brand X, John Perry, Stomu Yamash'ta, Mike Oldfield, Quantum Jump, or other alliances to come leaping out, they're long barbituated. Instead, avoid this like the plague and jump over to the review of his Music of Stars post-haste. And, yeah, Sarah Pillow's shilling this thing, but&hellpi;color me unimpressed. I can just guess imagine what the idiot crits over at Progression and Exposé are going to make of the disc. The adulation will be thicker than powdered sugar in an exploding donut factory, something those fat farmers take much too readily to on both counts. In fact, catch the dog before he yawns and tips over. The neighbors might think you've been slipping Budweiser into his water bowl.
You haven't, have you?
Edited by: David N. Pyles
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