Skunk Anansie: Wonderlustre
Last night I had a music dream about Grant Nicholas. There I was, stroking his guitar, licking his microphone, running my hand up and down his G-string. It was the most stimulating night’s sleep I’d had since Freddy Mercury was alive.
Then, The Taxman had to go ruin it by ringing me up at ridiculous’o’clock on a Wednesday afternoon, asking me to review the new Skunk Anansie album, Wonderlustre.
Well, I don’t know what they thought I was going to say about it. I mean, it’s utter tosh, of course.
It’s so bad, I don’t even have to listen to it. I just looked at the cover, read the track listing, and vomited all over my brand new Sony cassette player.
Okay, fine, I’ll have a look at the album sleeve. Wait. What’s ex-Feeder percussionist Mark Richardson doing in here?
Lovely, lovely Mark Richardson. Bulging biceps. Beautiful tatts. Huge, thick drum sticks.
Damn. Now I play it, this isn’t half bad. Skin, eh? Great lungs on that girl. Good beats. Solid riffs. Lyrical witticisms. Melodic melodies.
Maybe I was a bit harsh before. This may even breach my top ten albums of all time, right behind OK Computer, Thriller and Feeder’s seven LPs.
Mark, you beast. Hit that bass drum. Yeah, kick it!
I want to feel you pounding that snare until it explodes all over my bed sheets.
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