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Just when we thought we were out, they pull us back in. The success of arse-rock godfathers Toploader bears tragic testament to the Herculean appeal of Blokedom, their every dusty wheeze embodying the belief that the key to rock divinity lies in the throaty rasp and the worn moccasin. Their return finds the potion first brewed on 'Onka's Big Moka' develop a bitter tang, their knitted brows and woolly hippy ethic unravelling into a veritable fractal zoom of bong-addled indulgence and soul-mashingly crap music. While the 'Loader's sermon is undoubtedly well-meaning (see the touchingly stupid 'Let Me Be'), the sentiments expressed in 'Lady Let Me Shine' would have even Rod Stewart guffawing like a sexist drain.
Sarah Dempster
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