Like his American counterpart John Carroll Kirby, Foat stands at the vanguard of what we might call pulp jazz, a sound comprised of softcore jazz-funk and B-movie library music grooves, heady prog interludes and new age zone-outs—but designed, above all, for pleasure. This isn’t the insurrectionary transcendentalism of spiritual jazz. It is erogenous music, intended to move human bodies. Here, Foat and Salawu take what might have been a paperback sci-fi goof and come up with an album of simmering come-ons. That they happen to be floating in space doesn’t make them any less corporeal.