Not so much a single as an NME journalists’ entrance exam – new recruits are locked in a scream-proof booth and given three hours to find the tune beneath the larynx-puking, B52s-eating-Jon Spencer garage scree of any Blood Brothers record. An aptly titled racket this, as it sounds like the agony-stricken victims of two separate car crashes colliding on their way to casualty and would probably go by quicker if it was smothered in deafening sirens. But after three hours in a box with bleeding fingernails, that chorus is a dandy.
Mark Beaumont
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