So tastefully appointed, so artfully/craftily arranged, so very adult-sounding, that I expect most will have cleared the room by the end of this sentence.
Soaked in an ambience as warm as an old tube amp, Mutations knocks off seamless collages of organic source material with his trademark nonsense-as-wit.
Although Conduct is a somewhat more plugged-in affair than their previous disc, Pardon My French, the rockier moments lack the thrust of macho metallurgy.
Obsessive fans of one or more of the artists should enjoy this agreeable exercise in pointlessness. The rest of us: wave politely, no flash photography.
Far from being bleak and forbidding, Bauhaus was inclusive, their cold blood a warm sacrament for the scrabbling weevils crawling over the teenage underbelly.
Truth is, as reflexively brilliant and endlessly prolific as Pollard remains, for a guy that puts out as much as he does, he’s the biggest rocktease around.
How much longer will his dwindling cult put up with this cynical reconfiguration of songs that all of them already purchased before the light finally goes out?
Should you kiss the sky on your first date? How did a Black guy from Seattle track down the only two pale English guys with higher, kinkier hair than himself?
It’s the mark of a truly seminal artist that, even thirty years after his death, you discover something new with every new vault-scraping from the archives.
They’re poppy without being derivative, literate without being pretentious, Jarvis Cocker has that sexy-nerd thing happening like no British musician in years.