You are probably justifiably weary of us lot telling you how brilliant Shack are. You want to listen to [a]Korn[/a] or [a]Travis[/a], not some washed-up late-30-something gap-toothed geezer strumming his guitar. You’re sick of the tale of woe (Liverpool. Failure. Loss. Smack. Repeat ’til fade. Genius buried under there somewhere, destined for certain loss if it weren’t for a label finally coughing up some money for ‘HMS Fable’ to be made). It’s a class thing too, if you really dig in: these are northern lads made almost good, a bit like (grimace) Oasis, only uglier. What poetry could their gritty lives throw up that could possibly stir the hearts of refined English students?
Look, you lot need this song in your lives. Even if you’ve hated Shack up until now. Who else but Mick Head would write a bittersweet, pointed jangling ballad about how, in Amsterdam, sex is procured for the disabled? And not even notice it was a potential single, complete with lethal chorus, until live audiences demanded it be recorded and released? It’s an epiphany. Go, let it in.