Like the long lost stinking tramp brother of ‘Seven Nation Army’ turning up at Jack White’s house begging to spend a few days on the sofa only to soil the carpet, ‘Katrina’ sways, stumbles and bass-belches along with a headful of ’60s psycho blues fog and a leather trouserful of stale urine. Not the most romantic of songs to have written about you, perhaps – particularly when the Stones-y garage rattle gives way to what sounds like The Eighties Matchbox B-Line Disaster circle-puking on to a stack of Pulp Fiction DVDs. But, after a summer full of muddy thrills, why stop now?
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