There’s no way this was recorded in a studio. A cold, barren studio couldn’t conceive the type of sleazy, juicy electro beats found on 'Strict Machine'. No, this was made in the kind of place that charges by the hour, in a filthy hovel where the very oxygen is contaminated by the uninterrupted innuendo. Only a place saturated with the atmosphere of a red light district could spawn such a sensual piece with such jagged hard edges, a hybrid mixture of soft, pulsating sex-on-the-dancefloor moods and whiplash sharp snaps, with pinpoint accuracy.
Then there’s the voice: the sound of a virginal whore hotstepping down a dark alley. Trashy, yet with class – it’s the syndrome of the thigh-hugging boots made from only the best leather, the PVC suit with the most expensive cut. The vocals juxtapose cruelly with the obviously sleazy music, radiating a purity that can only be false, lying to the entranced, confusing, enticing. Whips crack to the sound of the beat as she commands her legions of adoring fans to dance to the rhythm that she dictates.
They have no choice. This was the track that they spent their lives waiting for, the perfect combination of beat-driven leers for their smoky club and now all they can do is dance for her. Her voice cuts like glass through the intoxicating liqueur of the background noise, becoming the only thing that matters.
Resistance is a waste of energy. Your surrender to Ms Goldfrapp is inevitable.