Bouncy merry. Elastic plasticene walls crumbling all around you.. this is the sound that first emanated from Kentish England: the thrall of Canterbury is difficult to resist and it persists in elevating spirits to lofty regions of heaven-soaked, lighthearted jazzy cakes tenderly eked out from the ovens of Miss Bliss Blitz. There is hardly a genre that exudes hopping mad happiness and a life devoid of strife than this.
Non-native purveyors we have here, spilling into our ears with their whalloping dose of syncopated perfection, a confection to be treasured above others. "Volume 1" is all there ever was and evermore shall be - an exercise in Belgian finery of the aural kind - melting euphoric chutzpah and hoo-hag-haw. In the 70's, there is much to the reflection of comely musical goodness to appear peeking form this corner.
Strains of tippled sax lines ripple from the stratosphere, doubling over and frolicking with hefty swatches of patched keyboard jelly in a near-acrimony.. conversing in playfully teasing, tersely intertwined, jocular retorts.
Lumpy-bumpy beds of "I can't believe he just chunked me, all thumply and bo-humply with the four thick stringed splatter, haltering to falter all over my face," leaving crinkum-crankum splotches of bass in its place.
Drum somersaulter kicks the kit, stop-start her, time-keeping grandfather tick-tockler, filling the crevices in the morass of this musical crevasse. It's no wonder that it is easy to get lost in this marmalade jammed all up onto the shelves' high cupboard.
Guitar lines snake.
Vocal discourse woos.
Wash your own hair clean.
SHAMPOOOOO... OOOOH.. OOH!
