You have to hand it to ‘Superfly’: it walks the walk. Few records – even amid the heap of dapper soul from the early 70s – exhibit this sort of swagger, and a still more exclusive number do it while weighed down by a title of such expectation. ‘Superfly’ is superfly. It doesn’t so much start as lean in. Curtis, steel within silk, eases over brass stabs and wakka-wakka guitar, apparently putting in the graft of a Dimitar Berbatov, while we pop our earphones on and pimp-roll through Charing Cross station.
Obviously, Junior thinks Mayfield’s bigging up an insect with awesome powers – but she catches the real sense; the sense that makes swing her hips and put up the customary two thumbs in honour of this cat of the slum.