Swampsnake: Now what Alex had in mind here is obviously some form of mild perversion, an antidote to playing table tennis with your chums in the Boys Brigade. Yawning wah-wah sounds good enough to fuckin’ eat! The track itself is almost too tight and to be truthful, like much of the album, suffers from a production that’s just a little tweedy.
Gang Bang: Popular tune, even with the women. If I were to tell you one thing – admit to one gleeful declaration – it would be this: maybe we should just imagine that life is a promise, a pronounced ideal of spiritual truth. Or better still: why not think of it as a pilgrimage, systematically linking the profane with the sacred? And eventually, with luck, we’re all saved…
The Faith Healer: Miracles indeed! And so that’s how it was, cruising across a hundred degrees, the glory falling from our mouths, celebrated and unrestrained, each in turn playing host to a carefree ego. We disposed of so many absurdities it was almost criminal. This track sums up SAHB like no other, especially played live. But it was early days, too early to consider what lay beyond the justification.
And Giddy Up A Ding Dong is true testament as to just how fallible our sense of reason could be. What was that about shit coming out your arse? Clearly I was wrong…
Next: As any rock guitarist will tell you, playing something like this does indeed turn the knees to jelly… Stimulating and inspired, as a song Next revives the seeds of your own free spirit. It also precludes the notion of SAHB shying away from tackling just about anything. Vambo Marble Eye: Great lyrical stuff from Alex, stirring up the seeds of Vibrania. Don’t you just love living in a lullaby? Wah-wah rools ya bass!
Last of the Teenage Idols: Tenement tantrums all about love – a strange kind of love. Only in a moment of curiosity can you remember it’s yourself you’re in love with! How utterly brilliant and comical Alex is, with everyone else rocking back and forth behind his frothing, seismic Elvis, shamelessly trying to convince us he’s the last of the soft–shoe bananas. Malodorous metaphor, grossly and rampantly delivered with spine–shivering panache. It made Z wonder about the whole process. To envisage oneself at a great feast, absorbing the makeshift moods, belching back at the dunces, at times bemused by the waywardness of fools and neophytes.
And fuck me, it went gold…