Quit Your Dayjob
Quit Your Dayjob

Really, who lets these people make records? They should be under lock and key, rocking backwards and forwards on their arses in a padded room painted black as night. They should not be allowed to fraternise with members of the public, nor should they be able to unleash a mini-album of freakish electro-punk oddities.

‘Cause it makes me dance about my living room like a Coca-Cola coked-up kid bopping along with Sam and (&?) Mark on Top Of The Pops Saturday.

Quit Your Dayjob are from Sweden. Last I heard that’s one cold country. Thus, the trio never slip out of their winter warmers for more than, say, two minutes before wrapping a song up. Opener ‘Freaks Are Out’ (they are) clocks in at one minute thirty; ‘Mike Fast’ (I am, thanks), just over a single minute. Each and every song bounces like Devo being pumped full of whatever they put in the water at Three One G. It's like the Locust on Ribena. Bonkers.

Just put it away, please. This is starting to become embarrassing.