Full Throttle Jazz Band - Full Throttle! Haruhiko Ohyabu Sound Action - 1970 from Japan [review only]

Here's a stunning libraryish unknown from the vaults, hidden from our modern eyes from almost half a century ago, and if you glance at the database page you might, like me, begin to 'salivate like a Pavlov dog' at the contents hidden therein-- I mean, we've got jazz-rock representations of famous muscle cars of the sixties-- oh man!  First, look at the amazing cover art.  Think of how nice that would feel to hold a steering wheel made of steel with that triangular configuration like those old plastic 1.5" 45 rpm adapters that would stay inside each single...  and don't ever forget the rifle and handgun.  What? weapons?  Like, yeah, why not? You're not gonna pack a pistol in the glove compartment of that Alfa Romeo? 

Let me now show to the world this treasure, left neglected in some old basement (complete with functioning bar and pool table presumably) never heard by humans until today, ready for the light like a lost Matisse at Christie's of the apocalyptic hard rock revolution.  It's a slice of Datsun-Japanese Americana that speed reads all over the great interstates of the US of A with a go-go hyperactivity made musical in wailing sax-led bang-on jazz jam sessions like the hellraising soundtrack to a dusty road trip through whorehouses and Louisiana swamps where men will play the banjo and load a shotgun with the same hand, maybe because they only have one arm (gator got the other)...  Oh look there's Mancini's Pink Panther run over by a Chevy Corvair, there's the Roadrunner at-long-last blown to fuzzbox smithereens by that acme improvised fusion device on the Sonoran Desert road, along with the martyr Roadkill E. Coyote...  and there's the Grand Canyon on the Western rim, let's Evel Knievel our Corvette over and make it to the other side-- oops we missed we have to grab the tiny bush hanging from the ledge...





And it's all permeated by hypnagogic, disheveled, psychedelic gasoline fumes as the bass monkeys up and down those fat metal strings like big mango trees and obviously Mr Hammond is blues-scaling his flat blues notes and hammering his dissonant 7ths like musical notation penned by Will Burroughs of Naked Lunch fame at the Aphrodisiac Inn, pink flamingos in front of course, out back the outdoor pool with plastic chaise lounges to trip your acid on as the avant-free-jazz workout turns into a jungle of sound you can't machete out of without tearing your polyester bell bottom pants off:





Check out the James Bond Girl foreplay moans soundtracking sexy-sax taxi-driver-style making out all the way to third base in the Maserati Quattroporte, martini in hand, movin' it on to the comfy barcalounger at the no vacancy motel:





till she runs off holding her B-cup bra down the driveway, and you mustang-sally pedal to the stratocaster pickup metal and all night long you rev, rpm the rem to the Route 66 of dreams, roaring your 666 hp motor like ye ol' MGM lion of a sushi-grade Detroit, Japa-Jazz yabadaba Rock City and don't forget your heat: spewing out lead from the guitar, lead from the colt 44, lead from the low-octane Texaco outta that rumblin' muffler into the screw you clean air act...

Oh yeah, it's a legitimate representation of sixties-seventies zeitgeist fit for time capsule consumption by those cosmonauts, those paleontologists of the future, post-anthropocene, who will quizzically examine this beastly vinyl tyrannosaur and wonder, what the hell do jazz-rock and sports cars have to do with each other???  At least, until they pop the 8-track into the working "Shelby Cobra" and fall back down into that daredevil canyon where the bottom rocks are 3 billion years old and the rock 'n' roll is eternal...

You'll see on discogs that only one copy is available, and it's never been sold before-- talk about a rarity!  We're lucky to get a taste.   Here's one that I suspect will be worth in the multi-hundreds to a thousand in a year or two.  Due to value, no link... sorry!