Omasta

Jazz Report From The Hood hits like a dispatch smuggled out of a back-alley rehearsal room where the paint is peeling, the amps hum like streetlights, and every horn line feels carved out of concrete. Omasta turns the “report” into something closer to a coded transmission—broken-beat swing, smoky-window melodies, and basslines that crawl with after-hours swagger.

There’s grit in the grooves, but it’s the intentional kind: the scuff of lived experience, the improvisational shorthand of musicians who know the difference between polish and pulse. Omasta folds in tape-hiss realism, blue-note smirks, and a loose, cinematic sense of danger—like the soundtrack to a documentary that never got made, but should have.

It’s jazz as urban folklore: raw, restless, and humming with the electricity of neighbourhood nights. A street-corner chronicle masquerading as a record.