Imagine yourself walking the barrios in Queens, New York circa 1975. Bums, pushers, hookers, street musicians and the smell of tortas vendors. You see a small club, it has a name like "Enrique's Hell Hole," you venture in. Torches are a-flaming, you tiptoe over the junkies and needles scattered about the floor. There are hundreds of sweaty men and women grooving to the most energetic music the American Latino community ever produced. On stage are six fried dudes, cranking out some intense music. I do mean intense.