Heroin chic. Swirling My Bloody Valentine guitars. Attitude fuelled by drugs. It’s been a while since I fell for that.
This talk of reverence and inheritance worries me. The idea that you should shut the fuck up because your progenitors haven’t yet been accorded their rightful due is so damn paralysing.
Chapter Four is all about the emergence of sound, style and make do and mend philosophy.
Maybe you too aren’t lucky enough to exist within the reach of the post-No Age kids, and aren’t a Vice editor. Don’t be worried. Come enjoy this. Music to make you swoon.
I sense a spirit of love that infuses the music with soul and self-expression. And if you think this description suggests a kitsch twee puke-fest, then I’d have sorely done the depth and strength of their music an injustice.