I own all the D.R.I. records (except that Full Speed Ahead travesty) as all good punkers should, but I certainly don’t need 37 covers of gurgled nonsense.
When I found 1997 wandering through the woods of Northern Maine, she looked chilled and distracted, so I took her back to my cabin for a hot toddy or two.
True to the dark, contrary nature of J.G. Ballard and David Cronenberg, Crash has far more complicated things on its mind than mere titillation on wheels.