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London Brixton Academy

[B]Shirley[/B] is backed by three savagely sensible and appallingly sane, giant-brained musical genius ugly blokes with the collective sex-appeal of fresh dog shit...

London Brixton Academy

Mad Ma Nature, given half a chance, will fill every ecological niche with mad variations on an already insane theme. And pop circa Space 1999 is living proof of this awesome Darwinian truth.



Who needs smelly old heavy metal when we've got The Chemical Bros and the Prodge? Who ever needs to hear another Sham-style punker-shouty combo or a Wet Wet Wet clone when we've got the Digital Hardcore garage-gibberers and the demented Aqua, Erasure and Pet Shop Boys? And - let's be frank - who needs the smelly old steam-powered, living-fossil, analog-antiquities like Radiohead, The Verve, REM or U2 when evolution has already provided us with the gleaming digital-pop perfection of Garbage? Answer: You do. You Luddite nutter.



You think Garbage are 'manufactured'. You sneer that they're 'soulless'. That they're cold, clinical and calculated. And, worst of all, as you cling to the festering and mung-bean, cold sweat and patchouli reeking remains of your disgusting hippy-folk aesthetic, you actually think that these are bad things. You daft twat!



"Fuck the Spice Girls!" snarls leather-clad, nuclear sex-bomb Shirley Manson. Or Thom Yorke Spice as she's known round these parts. She's mad, she's mental - she's a straitjacket, 20,000cc of liquid lithium and a worn-out vinyl copy of 'OK Computer' short of the sort of happy, shiny well-rounded personality needed by a proper manufactured pop personality. And a penis short of ever being able to win a credibility certificate from the misogynist scum who guard the gates of PROPER miserablist gloom-rock. And the incredibly sexy and more than slightly unstable Shirley is backed by three savagely sensible and appallingly sane, giant-brained musical genius ugly blokes with the collective sex-appeal of fresh dog shit. The irony is delicious. Yum yum!



So you get all that for the same price as a bunch of mumbling one-trick Oxford poshos PLUS a string of superbly over-produced cutting-edge mutant madpop rock singles - 'I'm Only Happy When It Rains' (sung tonight with the help of duck squeezer and ex-NME hack Chrissie Hynde) , 'Paranoid', 'Stupid Girl' etc etc etc - songs so slick, hip and tricky that they stick in the head like a knife. You lucky bastards!



Gary Numan and Republica and a dozen other top-quality pop acts are here tonight to pay homage. Class knows class. If you disagree then that can only be because you can't tell the difference between shit and a top shag. And that's your loss, grunting cave-boy.

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