This duo's scant restriction and ceaseless repetitions of plain ol' bass line-n-drum beat in a plain ol' room, occasionally graced by toyish+bygone keyb-taps, grants a whole lotta room for a whole lotta rabid rant and even a few almost-sung choruses. Opportunely, frontman Jason Williamson has the kind of vastly venomous thick-English vitriol that The Fall hasn't managed since some thirty years ago. Vocab is intelligent without giving a shit (the troublesome inner-workings of the world come up as often as farts, eloquent evaluations are expressed right along with absurdities and "DIE DIE DIE"), the anti-'s are copious (complacency, gimmicks, frippery, music, etc.), and the scathe is colorful -- many-a fuck/cunt/mate/arse, sure, but this roster of mockeries includes everything from limited-edition Vans and chinny wine tasters to "Tumbling Dice" receiving too much radio-play and "that tool from Blur". And equally riveting is all the slang I will never/wasn't meant to fathom -- titcakes, purple polo lards, you know.
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