This is not your typical crew either. After one sip, you'll agree that these cuts could only be crafted by award-winning brewmasters. The workhorses behind this operation include Vic Samalot (guitars), Bobbi Holt (keyboards), Jeffrey Scott (bass), and Vince Broncaccio (drums). To add spit and polish, they take on additional responsibilities themselves and are even joined by some interns. With solidarity and synergy among the staff, they ensure there's something in here for everyone no matter what the season.

Here's an analysis of the viscous ditties dispensed from this exquisite factory of fusion:

We begin our journey in the company of Illegal Aliens. They have the technical ingenuity of those incredibly skilled cats from Niacin. To make the recipe diverse, its midsection receives a pungent pinch from a pouch filled with System of a Down's seedy riffs. It's as arrogant and moody as the cons from Reservoir Dogs. It moves with a swagger in its step and carries the weight of a freight car on its shoulders. The offsetting bass is what gives this confident gang its sense of balance.

The smugglers swarm the convoy in the Wuhun Incident. Combine Roine Stolt's melodic guitars and Sean Malone's mean bass and you wind up with the jam in this paste. It's covered in capers and speckled with pimentos. This crunchy spread is as arresting and digestible as the disco that rides along with T.J. Hooker on a high-speed chase. This unites William Shatner's dynamic characters from the primetime of his past with the witty persona he plays on Boston Legal in the present tense.

Mystic Jam is Lenny Kravitz' American Woman, but its behavior is benign and gentle. With its subdued disposition, this is easily more approachable than the rude heroine he keeps at a distance. While it bears an uncanny relation to that high-maintenance dame, you can relax, it's drastically tamer. It's quite alright to get up close and personal to this friendly and sociable fair lady. On the track and the previous one in the procession, Gabe O'Brien enhances the interior with decorations from his percussion.

The drums mimic the gears of a locomotive gathering speed in Cole Train. Bellows of ash and dust are puffed from its smokestack and pushed into the air. Eventually, the coal runs out, the steam dissipates, and the train glides into the station as smooth as glass. The way in which this is done is majestic, regal, and maybe even debonair. After a quick stop, it clicks ahead a few paces and then permanently locks itself into place. At this point, it firmly and assuredly applies the brakes. For the most part, this song reminds me of the droning pulse discharged from L. Ron Hubbard's manic, but persuasively penitent infomercial. It's as convincing as Braveheart's benevolent charge and in addition, his impassioned call to arms.

If the last jazz was jarring and jerky, Feast of the Warrior Kings is sleeker than the threads borne by a silkworm. Each line it conceives is elegantly designed. The cobweb's attractive cross-sections dangle, shimmer, and shine. As the condensation builds, dewdrops make their descent. They splash off jagged rocks and dampen the dirt. Blades of grass are used to collect and funnel this muddy moss-ridden wetness. A caterpillar slurps from the tiny reservoirs that build up at the base. When the twilight nears, it makes its decree and urges all the night creatures out. With its invitation and summons, the insects crawl from their nests and enter the brush. Without much of a fuss, it's an easy stroll through the Mister Rodger's creepy-crawly neighborhood. Not before long, The Glutton and Mullah awaken for pagan rituals at the grove. This wouldn't be a celebration without a court jester to beckon, egg on, and pester. That's why it reminds me of Flying Food Circus and their jolly good pranksters.

In Splat!, the bugs are replaced by rodents in an exuberant game of Whack-A-Mole. The mallet makes quick work of the weasels as they pop in and out of their holes. During the duration, they really wrack up the score. With their success, they decide to make this their living and call their beloved business Anti-Pesto. All this is happy, happy, joy, joy in a wacky and whimsical way. While Vince is the drummer everywhere else on the album, Paul Stranaham temporarily takes his place. Along with Vic's guitars, this piece is zany, maniacal, and daft. Like Wallace & Gromit or Ren & Stimpy, Vic and Paul are one roguish duo, but also make adorable pets. The merriment found in this song easily makes it a highlight among the litter.

This is where we deviate from the standard circuit. Seven tracks in, there is Miles to Go, but it's at this point, the album switches its route in pursuit of a different goal. The band takes the opportunity to feature a female singer. For the record, the responsible party is Bobbi Holt, who's the keyboardist, but did you know, she also sings and plays the recorder. After surpassing the halfway mark, we encounter Intermission, Off to Arizona , Grand Central Station, and Dinner at Koko's. Aside from the second, each is a live studio improvisation. Had I not been told, I would have never known, because each is specifically configured to stand on its own. It works for the best that the adlibs aren't entirely bunched together. The real deal in between is a dandy drink and it's tepid enough to warm our toes. To escape the humidity and the sweltering sun, we leave this landlocked region, board a commuter rail, and continue on into cooler regions. To reward us for the ground we've covered over a very short time, we are treated to a luscious meal at a trendy cafe smartly situated down by the breezy boardwalk and bay.

After this series of detours and diversions, we're back on track with a pair of stout songs. Both are fine-tuned and tweaked in the studio. First in this stately set, Destiny's Eyes focuses on the heartland. Here we're indebted to the acoustic guitar of a cowboy and obliged by the pan flute of a Native American. Actually, Jeffrey trades in his bass and barters for this acoustic instrument while Bobbi murmurs these wispy notes on her recorder. In Heading Home, Bobbi takes the opportunity to sing for us one last time before the tune resonates and fades away. As it's commonly known, the caboose is always the prettiest gal atop the chassis of a chain-linked Choo-Choo. In other words, they finish on the curtails of my favorite cocktail.