A friend passed the reissue of Gabor Szabo's Jazz Raga off to me at a bar just as the summer began to kick in here in Los Angeles. Unlike much of the country, the season here is a creeper---coming on slowly, all hazy, unpredictable and noir like something out of a Thomas Pynchon novel. As CDs often do, Raga ended up living in my car's deck for the next six weeks. Released in 1967 the collection is a weird stew of . . .
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