I wonder what the kaleidoscope eyes of a lottery winner on acid would bare witness too. Would it be the anguished angry streets of Allen Ginsberg's Howl, or the plasticine porters with looking glass ties of the Beatles ode to tripping that was Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds?
This is the perfect prescription for those January blues. It's a vaudeville romp through the posh boutiques of Bond Street. The riff spins like a silver Tiffany's ring that warps into a queasy spin on a fairground waltzer. All dizzy flashes of colour and giddy whirlpools of sound. It's like a Day-Glo soundtrack on one of those awful late period Elvis films scored by the Flaming Lips. Notes bend, warp and blend with the ether. Davey McManus' voice straining to contain the wonder of his trip.
This is taken from a re-recording of their debut LP. Warners coughed up the cash for the band to completely re-record the whole thing. Thankfully the additional money has sharpened the pop edges without smothering the chemically altered imagination that beats at the heart of the Crimea. A sparkling musical jewel in a bleak winter.
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