Hail
hail the sun machine - refracting playfully on gold oceans of colonial
electro-rock. Do what thy wilt shall be the whole of the law - but the
wind still cries sorry - too late and to
the wrong person. Poetry for weddings that were too busy having fun to
happen but admitted later, to a mutual friend, that it would have been
nice to have been asked. Concentric desires, parallel lives, the flowers
of romance but, somewhere in international waters - Liberation.
Slamdunkin
funk pop with Fender Twin semi-acoustics ghost riding away on top.
Recorded on the roof September 11 2001. Summery drink-in-hand riff-orama
a la Jacques Brel's La Moribond - the original Seasons In The Sun.
A happy song, lyrically uptight, or soundtrack for a picnic at the
world's end. Bah.
Stark
verse turned inside out - poeticising all the dark elements of those
'gardens sweet with ripened vines' moments. Where other songs would
try to bring everything safely back to earth, this feels the need
to get more intense. Pure pop going bang bang.
The
internet as lost highway; fade in as a detective is travelling down
it - with one last job to do. "I've been your wish list, baby.
I've seen myself in you," he explains to himself over some
missing Pixies freeform jazz half tuned-in on his radio. He never
sees the motivations of his webcam femme fatale, but we can.
A
holiday romance on Lesbos - cod ska sunseeker and sensitive soul
Catullus takes ecstacy on a paraglide and sings Look Down In Anger
at 18-30 philistines and the wasted hearts they cruelly leave alive
in a sea of groped parts.
Last
of the two minute fuck-this moments recorded in the Archway bunker.
Classic stripped down rock from the phantom back catalogue, lyrically
as optimistic as you want it to be. 
Some
folks proclaim to make the stars. And some folks rule with divine
sanction. Which might or might not be a parallel, but it all sounds
a bit rum to these ears. A teenage Joan Jett runs away to join Pere
Ubu instead. 
Gather
round me children. I will tell you where men go when men go. Presbyterian
youth club rock with divine intervention on the microphone from
devout Pentecostal Charismatic Angela Penhaligon. It's just something
to say that we were beautiful. And that I loved you. We were carving
something. True.
A bloody Valentine's card found in the Morne-plaine trenches, a
bombastic intro of glass candle grenades. 
Twilight
zone space jazz that can't hold it's booze, can't last the distance
and can't seem to feel no more. Swaggers home thinking of
Missus Triffic, only to slump on church steps. Sees the light, goes
inside, asks what it's all about, bud.
Eloquent
hardcore moderne to bend innocent heads and hips into kinetic
spasms forever, as music should. Jawdroppingly spot-on lead guitar
if I do say so myself.
Origin
Du Monde voodoo roots rock'n'roll
song by a parallel Beatles in a Cavern on Mars. The Carl Stalling
guitar orchestra charge half a league onward through the shrill,
demented choir of effects pedals from Venus.
Kooky
supervixen pop - staying in to watch Black Narcissus. Mid- summer
night sex theatre, worryingly close
to it's groovy big sister. People might talk, they already are.
But when it feels this sweet, funk 'em.
Recorded
asleep. Partly. An old French colonial lullaby with homespun harmonium,
a double-barrel Marble Index shivering through the gates of an Edward
Gorey kindergarten. Sad.