Must. Stop. Lissen. Ning. To. CS. S.
Do you remember when pop used to be sex and sex used to be so dirty? You’d be so hot for it that you could barely keep your hips apart; your eyes met but you felt like a wise man dumbstruck by a UFO. The way your breath pounded the walls and sweat was seaping down your back, only it’s their sweat that just flicked from your forehead onto the walls. This is ooooh-ah-ah-la-la, like a French virgin seducing you and making you feel as powerless as a six-year-old that’s clearly pissed itself in the playground. It’s a Brazilian supermodel who’s so sexy she doesn’t need to do anything more to please herself than tease mankind.
CSS are putting the geeks back on the dancefloor in ways previously reserved for Daft Punk. They’re putting clever smart-bombs back on the radio and making the most of Goldfrapp, The Go! Team and other-bands-not-beginning-with-G greasing the door hinges and leaving the world primed to get down_ and throw their hands in the air. This is a real, true, proper sensation, not some one-night fad. In short...
Dear Sub Pop, we hate you. We can’t stop dancing and I just broke the repeat button on my Discman. You utter bastards. Now, please, leave us alone - I'm knackered and need a good lie down.
9Sean Adams's Score