By Simon Coxall (@mushybees)
Imagine you’re preparing a meal for someone you really want to impress. Your starter if the firm foundation of the whole experience. That initial choice can set the tone for the whole evening, it may end in the love of your life, the greatest of friendships…
You choose prawn cocktail.
A limp lettuce leaf, some off-brand ketchup and mayonnaise whisked together, semi-defrosted prawns, all heaped together in a wine glass you got from a petrol station promotion in 1986. You had the gastronomic universe to choose from, the finest ingredients, the greatest recipes, yet you chose the horrendous retro fiasco that now sits limp before your guests.
That’s the sound of this album.
Kirt Debique had the world of sound at his fingertips and yet he chose the wilted prawn cocktail of eighties keyboard mediocrity as his starter. Soggy, cold, genetic, limp and unappetising. His vocals come across like Andrew Eldritch and Edwyn Collins in an echo chamber, auditioning for a Tim Rice musical about nothing. The lyrics are a non event of tired clichés and self reflective man-whines.
The one up-tempo effort sums up the whole album. “Crowded Room” wouldn’t feel out of place in any film starting the young Molly Ringwald. The scene where Molly gets a heart warming inspirational speech from her down trodden single father (probably Harry Dean Stanton) prompting her to don a rara skirt and pursue the biggest douchebag in high school. Her besotted best friend looks on, forlornly wondering why she never looks his way. He’s got taste, style, soul and will treat her well. This album makes us all sit alone outside a disco full of twats, hoping the world will somehow open up and swallow us whole.
This album makes us Molly Ringwald’s best friend.
