The return of the Mary Chain must have prompted a few sweaty palms in Camp Black Rebel. What if this town’s only big enough for one band of mumbling leather-clad noiseniks with hair like a nest built by hooligan crows? Best keep your head down, as much as that gigantic barnet will allow, and keep churning out that bluesy rock’n’roll. As reliable as a bottle of Jack, but
someone ought to watch those lyrics, a load of old bollocks about “suicide” and “revolutions” that makes Bobby Gillespie look like Noam Chomsky.