Fishbone. Astoria. by Adam Sweeting (from: The Guardian, 23 October 1991, PAGE 38) Guitarist Kendall Jones has called Fishbone's music ''a whole new radio terrorism'', but that's barely the start. Imagine if George Clinton had kept on going until he ran into Ornette Coleman, out where the air is thin. Try adding a bit of Charles Mingus, Jimi Hendrix, Living Colour and Public Enemy. Put it in an oven pre-heated to 2,000 deg. C. Live, there is much to learn and admire. I can't remember the last time I saw a naked man onstage, but there was Angelo Christopher Moore, proudly wearing only a tenor saxophone and singing ''I'm a naz-tee may'en''. ''It's yo' ass that's goin' to jail, not mine,'' cracked Walter Kibby the trumpeter. Fishbone have blasted out of the LA ghettos like a travelling earthquake, but behind the superficial appearance of chaos, there is mighty order and discipline. From funk to free jazz, fiery riffs to rasta-pop, Fishbone insist that you stop and think for a moment. Maybe they overdo the warning stickers sometimes, trowelling on the anti-drug message through Junkie's Prayer and Pray To The Junkiemaker, hammering away at the white-man culture and politics that blanks out African-Americanism, but there has never been such theatrical brain-food as this. Trombones and delirious punters soar through the air as the seven-piece band pogo round the stage like wallabies on heat. When the band produced a giant Fishbone flag while they shot a video for Fight The Youth, somebody obligingly threw himself on to it as trampoline-fodder. Through the pandemonium, drummer Fish maintained a steaming funk beat, while the guitarists saved some murderous soloing until the very end. Prince came to see them in Paris, and Seal was here. They'll be back next year, but for now, there's always The Reality Of My Surroundings, in all formats.