The unbreathable air saturated with moisture, the soggy soil that swallows every step like a starving death, the hostile nature and, finally, the remote swamp. The one they invested in composing Fire Eater. The one they left a few traces in. 
Tracks that can talk. 

Six men heavily armed with instruments, a seventh fastest, only weighted by a microphone. They left the inhospitable vegetation, leaving behind a succession of footprints. As we try to follow them, the afrobeat that made it easy to spot them now dissipates into a floating mist. 

So, we have to connect the radars and try to capture the vintage waves of equipment that emit more than one point but several. Be attentive to jazz solos and funk scarifications, as much as to what could chant and tap on the times of these tight rhythms. Because their blending has become a personal style as much as hybrid, and it is to avoid being watched by asphyxiation that they left the stagnant waters. 

Escaped from the car sound systems or plastered on the walls announcing their many concerts, it is in the city that they are now detected. Infiltrating them is a daunting task. A track where you have to avoid the vigilance of the electric and venomous keyboards, escape the copper flames and the guitar shears. Enter the choking groove to finally enjoy a purely instrumental passage, sneak in and dance. 
Progress outside the Afro mangrove, Running The Way nevertheless retains many cables still connected. The bottom of the jeans still ‘Roforofo’. ‘Muddy’ in Yoruba.