The clodhopping queens of the Dixons sound system return with something evidently attempting to get back to the fabled 'street' of their inception. Busting a lyric one-time, keeping it real and hip-hop seems to be the goal here, you know what I'm saying, as the Saints 'drop vocabulary' with their customary skill: like someone reading from a textbook on foundry work, translated from the original Hungarian. At sea in a set of terminology they don't seem entirely comfortable with, they're off: "Got your pager number", they exclaim, which couldn't sound weirder if they were singing "Got your pancreas". "You're all up in my ass", they continue, as only four deeply perplexed individuals can, while woozy cheese music predominates. Is this what they mean by 'dope flow'?
John Robinson
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