Sued to within an inch of their livelihoods by an intriguing combination of Afrika Bambaataa, Talking Heads and the Osmonds, Bassheads didn’t do anything remotely diverting after this track. In fact, the last three minutes are a steep drop from the wild euphoria of the previous six; the music grinds to a plinky-plonky crawl, sounding oddly like Sting dreaming of blue turtles.
The first six minutes are just right. Bassline building to guitars to sci-fi lasers to Italo house piano to that Bambaataa rap to distorted guitars to piano laser meltdown. We had our hands in the air at The Tube. Junior’s hands were just in front of her, doing the clapping that looks like she’s making her hands spit-spot, Mary Poppins style.
She tired of the coda even more quickly than I do, demanding breakfast at the first sniff of ambient noodling.
[All my vinyl rips seem to have corrupted; Top 11 mp3s to follow… later]