Warning! This review contains a half-assed King Henry II metaphor. Good single though...
“Who will rid me of this troublesome guitarist?” hissed King Norman III one dark and thunderous night, cackling to himself at his evil plans to turn the last great British pop band into the new Stardust. And lo, by dawn Archbishop Coxon was excommunicated and sent to record his solo album in a cave in the Cotswolds using only wool, straw and cowgut. Or so it sounds. But with the bathwater, one suspects, exits the baby, as Coxon retorts with a cranky squeal of a pop song that may sound like it’s being sung by a terrified Tibetan mountain farmer stuck by the arse in a bucket of crabs but retains the feral crunch of Blur at their peak. Exeunt, then, triumphant.