Francis Heaney’s Lipogrammatic Consumer Guide.
A REVIEW OF BECK’S “MIDNITE VULTURES,”
USING ONLY THE LETTERS IN “BECK: MIDNITE VULTURES.”
It’s… indiscreet. It’s like, “dick, dick, dick; smut, smut, smut; vice, vice, vice; slut, slut, slut.” Seductive Beck is Mister Luv. Is Beck music’s kinkiest librettist ever? Beck, it seems, desires submissive bimbette mistresses under seventeen, dressed in slit miniskirts, derriere unveiled. But I’d surmise nine men in ten lust like Beck lusts; it isn’t eccentric.
Is “Midnite Vultures” sick? It’d incite tics in numbskull Bible Belt residents, sure, but it isn’t sick, it’s slick. Slick like crème brûlée, dude, believe me. “Midnite Vultures’” eclectic music revels in its ebullient leisure-suit-‘n’-sideburns seventies vibe. Never mind its tunes’ intermittent mindlessness. I like it.
A REVIEW OF THE CURE’S “BLOODFLOWERS,”
USING ONLY THE LETTERS IN “THE CURE: BLOODFLOWERS.”
Oh, Lord. “Bloodflowers,” where the out-of-touch Cure tell us, “Toodle-oo, fellow brotherhood of scowlers, we’re bored.” Well, we’re bored too. Cheerless, self-obsessed Robert S. broods for the whole dull CD. Heretofore, Cure records were sorrowful, sure, but so short of soul? The wretched “Bloodflowers” follows Robert S.’s Rules of Order to the letter: Be blue, show oodles of woe, use two or three chords, flow too slow, blow out the subwoofers.
The Cure’s obsolete subculture’ll doubtless feel the CD’s cool, but the rest of the world should flee. Flee! Flee the terror of “Bloodflowers”! The CD’s worth lots of four-letter words, but we’ll be less rude; so, to close: Show “Bloodflowers” the cold shoulder. Blecch.
A REVIEW OF XTC’S “WASP STAR,”
USING ONLY THE LETTERS IN “XTC: WASP STAR.”
XTC’s art: strata apart. “Wasp Star’s” wax trax attract rapt cats: A+
A REVIEW OF BELLE & SEBASTIAN’S
“FOLD YOUR HANDS, CHILD, YOU WALK LIKE A PEASANT,”
USING ONLY THE LETTERS IN “BELLE & SEBASTIAN:
FOLD YOUR HANDS, CHILD, YOU WALK LIKE A PEASANT.”
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