A world away from the savage bass-driven grudges, the hairstyle neurosis, the shoe-fear and shirt-searching and simply falling asleep at the mixing-desk that we're used to, this is two minutes of flexi-pop tricked out to look completely natural, like it didn't care, although I suspect that there's a lot of (hidden) studio microsurgery behind it. It's a miracle of compounded reference: twangy voices and wah-wah-gimmicks and burned-out psychedelia. "Your money talks / But my genius walks." This is it then, I suppose--the last word, the final vinyl.
For a copy, write to: TMB Music, 432 W. 47, NYC 10036, USA.