Red Hot Chili Peppers
Do you see what the Chili Peppers have done? They’ve dovetailed the words ‘California’ and ‘fornication’ in an effort to signpost the seamy pit of amorality, starlust and bumcrack bleaching that is LA and environs. And they’ve made the tune sound vaguely like ‘Stairway To Heaven’, so that you know to ‘feel’ to it.
It’s a little more skilful than that whole ‘Blood Sugar Sex Magic’ juxtaposition all those years ago, but – unlike then – you do wonder whose side the Chilis are on. Is this a biting satire on casting couches, the price of fame and – possibly – the fist-fucking of virgin-fresh dreams from the formerly hyperactive penis-socked dudes, whose latest LP has incidentally gone sextuple platinum in New Zealand? Or – like the last missive from the Tinseltown state, Hole‘s ‘Celebrity Skin’ – do its distressed, bittersweet folk-chords ring fractured, more like tribute than tribulation? You know it. It’s the done thing in Malibu, darling, to cackle over freshly-squeezed Prozac juice and low-tar shiatsu about how shallow and tawdry being a wildly successful star is. Damage, baby: it’s as essential as collagen.
PS Can we have our brain-dead, half-dressed funk-hop rock animals back now, please? All this false empathy is starting to make my removed rib tingle.