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I used to know a man, someone with a wall-sized record collection, someone who could name a song from 200m, someone who lived and breathed rock'n'roll, who would snap up Sleeper 7"s, pray at the altar of Neil Young, shake his floppy fringe to The Jesus & Mary Chain and groove like a nutter to Roxy Music, who a) had no Jimi Hendrix in his collection, a fact that always baffled me; and b) hated The Boo Radleys. This was before Wake Up! Boo, when most people became aware of the Boos. When Giant Steps came out and the Indie Class of '91 were delivered their own Pet Sounds, this chap would get into a frothy-mouthed frenzy at the mere mention of the band's name. "Shoegazing poo with trumpets!" he would spit. This is a great album. An album that straddles Indie, Dub (yes), Pop, 60s Psych, Reggae, Shoegazing, Anthem, Bedsit Blues (sorry, "Studio Flat" Blues), Angstrok and Rockola in general. I'm listening to it now, for the first time in 5 years. It's glorious. I've heard some great albums recently. New music carries on being the Devil's Horny Pecker at which we should all suck. And this album, man, if it was released now, the kidz would be alright. I reckon it would even get some of them to flip back their hoods, look into each other's eyes and say "Jesus, I'm so cold, but this is my life too", before knifing a granny on a bus. But at least they'd have the awkward teenager pathos with which to deliver that ultimate and unavoidable treachery that every next generation will perform: the ushering on of the previous generation, often forcibly. Our kids kill us slowly from the moment we create them, and we nurture them into their Charonic roles. I recall, once, listening to this album when I was at university doing my under-graduate degree, and thinking "Martin," (that's the lead singer/songwriter's name), "Martin, I wouldn't wish that you were skinny, it's rubbish. I know. People comment on it. You get shy about wearing t-shirts in case people look funny at your skinny arms. Believe me, there might be a recognised stigma about being fat, but it's even worse being skinny. No one believes you when you say 'I wish I wasn't skinny'." Now I've had an office job for about 6 years, my arse has changed shape and there's a tubule of fat running from my kidneys to my belly button, I'm thinking "Hmm, maybe it wouldn't be so bad if my hip joints stood out once more...". But maybe not. So, greeting the world with tired eyes, head of dust and leaves and sand, this album's creeping past my ears, dredging up the faces of love and pain. This album is 3rd year university, studying the history of the UK electricity grid. Sunny afternoons sitting in a garden, with cold lemonade in south coast commuter towns. It's rain and wind coming off the Channel, whipping Brighton up and blaring glorious free jazz trumpets through cold bedrooms and betrayals, secrets and lies. It's coming to terms with things at hand. Noizblitzerama. Spinning under the moon, a touchdown jesus in poncho and triple shades. A hippy in a town of retro mods. It's green dragons and cider, fiat unos and unrented beach deck chairs. It's nihilism and running away from life. Asteroids smacking into Jupiter and coach journeys that last for days. It's an introduction to trance-as-it-used-to-be, it's delicate baldiness staggering home stoned with fog buzzing in pylon wires. Staggering up steep streets with tins of hotdogs and sweetcorn, and rolling into a grey goose for half a beakfull. It's being on the Level, but not into The Levellers, hitching a ride a mile and a half, stony stares in stairwells and typewriters that give psychic messages. It's about trusting gut feeling and little switches in my head that flip from 0 to 1. It's people with horses and broken noses, with Arran sweaters tucked into their jeans. It's an album about feeling awkward and shy, and waking up to confidence and maturity. It's about knowing what's right and doing the wrong thing anyway. It's about fortune and glory, and leaving and arriving. It's contradictions for sure, with flutes and jaunty angles and Wurlitzer swirls hiding mourning for youth and dreams and the immolation of immortality. And now I'm getting older I still can't find the words, but what I can say with equanimity and conviction is, Lance Hill, if you're reading this: YOU ARE BLOODY WRONG, THIS IS A FOCKIN' GREAT ALBUM.
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