Before hearing this band in Manhattan, I stopped at a bar for absinthe—absent, alas, the wormwood (Artemisia absinthium) that confers this high’s peculiar, high-Bohemian clarity. No such legal strictures afflict Berlin, which has at least four bars devoted to the real McGogh. Drink responsibly, then listen euphorically as the cellist and his friends (among them pianist Uri Caine) entwine themselves in the tresses of the Fée Verte. —E.E.
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