A long, long time ago, when Julian Casablancas was knee-high to a grasshopper and Mars Bars were only 25p, I fell madly in love with a pop group called Garbage. I was reeled in by the sexy voodoo venom of 'Vow' and 'Only Happy When It Rains' and their untouchable gothpopstrumpet danger grrrrrl Shirley Manson. I wanted to BE her. I HAD HER POSTERS ON MY WALL GODDAMMIT! _And now what? The new single 'Cherry Lips (Go Baby Go!)_' arrives "at the office" wanting a review.
Kids, this is NOT the work of a girl who fucked boys in the McDonalds toilets, shit on her boyfriends cereal and stole knickers from Miss Selfridge. This is piss-poor, humourless, sexless, sub sub SUB Dweeb b-side WANK. “Eek! Are the grown-up’s in the throes of midlife crises?” we ponder in an alarmed manner. I reckon there’s something Samson-esque afoot here. Let’s consider the evidence. Off come Shirley's lustrous mahogany locks and lo! the tunes and the sex *and the *pizzazz *and the rockunroll magic skuttle away with them! And what are we left with? A blonde Billy Idol style scare-do and a bouquet of decomposing Bis outtakes that’s what. *Garbage! You’re at least 100 years old! Grab your cash, buy a penthouse in LA and fuck. right. off!
3Becky Stefani's Score