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It takes Newton Faulkner about a half-dozen lines of the title track of this EP to mention anal probes. At that point, and indeed during that song, you might still be half-way interested. It's quirky and offbeat, and not altogether uninteresting, like Beck slowly taking Damien Rice through the finer points of not being so banal that eating your own fist is preferable to sitting through a minute more of your infernal bleatings.
Four more songs later and anything approaching interest will have evaporated. Although, in an amusingly cyclic way, you will have had your ears assaulted with a cover of Massive Attack's Teardrop, which could quite happily be shoved where even the most hardy of proctologists would fear to tread.
No doubt, with his gruff, pseudo-Vedder bark, and his easygoing acoustic twang, Newton Faulkner will find a great deal of favour; most probably in a land where the jumpers are V-necked, the radio station is two, and the albums are purchased in numbers of not more than five a year. Which, frankly, is more than terrifying enough to send you screaming into the night.
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