Exuma is a bit like a real version of Screamin' Jay Hawkins, only his act isn't so much of an act.
Both heathens are great, but I suspect that either one of them would attack me if I were to present myself as a target by, say, making eye contact. There is something in my eyes that sickens dogs, children, and, I think, loud musical voodoo men. It's either cowardice or corneas.
The two men would set upon me in different, and revealing ways:
Screamin’ Jay Hawkins would contemptuously wiggle a plastic snake of dubious anatomical correctness in my face, make me feel like a twit by gurning at me on live tv, then take me out into the car park and give me a good punt in the testicles with one of his gaudy, zebra-print loofers.
Exuma would transform himself into a REAL snake (a giant black one with a human face - see album art), coil his scaly snake body around my thorax, and bellow deeply resonating, maniacal laughter at me as my soul spouted out through my terror-dilated nostrils like steam from a boiling kettle. My limp body would then fall to the floor and fester on a grey ikea rug for a time, eventually to be discovered by a weak-stomached police officer who ‘didn‘t sign up for this shit'. An autopsy would indicate that I had died of natural causes.
Admittedly that’s all conjecture, but conjecture based on extensive, infallible research - plus a funny lemsip dream I had under the silvery light of a zenith moon.
The first Exuma album would be among my desert island discs. I don’t know if you can burn coffee granules to produce a pungent orange-brown smoke that sexy voodoo (rather, Obeah) ladies dance out of, eager to obtain a measure of your precious ‘seed', but if you could, it would look and feel like Exuma I sounds. It might even sound like Exuma I sounds.
I want to be invited onto desert island discs.
My favourite song from the album is You Don’t Know What’s Going On. Listen to it now if you want (ignore video by closing eyes):