Like some strange offspring of William Burroughs and Chet Baker backed by The Lounge Lizards, Birmingham, Alabama’s Johnny Coley delivers southern gothic beat poetry in a leathery, slurring wobble on Mister Sweet Whisper. His words, backed by a group of local young musicians from the Sweat Wreath label on guitar, upright bass, vibraphone, saxophone, and organ, are lysergic and hallucinatory incantations–nocturnal, perverse, slithering, and hilarious . . .
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