Meet Me In St. Louis

You keep your rock and I’ll keep mine, ta. Mine knows how to, y’see. What can yours do? ‘Very Ape’. Oh sure, ha ha, clever clever. Fuck you.

Lovvers sound more like Nirvana now than Nirvana did before they knew they were Nirvana; their screech-rawk noise is now matched to an aesthetic bearing a similarity to… oh, you know. Does it dilute their raging ways? Does it lessen their impact on the first faces that meet our flailing vocalist’s gaze? Nope, course. Fuck you.

Retro rock is malformed, misinformed; this retrogression is for positive impact, poise faultless and racket maintained. Your jangles are dated by the passing of time, yet Lovvers exist out of the loop, unmoved by fad and fashion ‘til they themselves wind up in the pages of it – oops – and take the necessary action: “we’ll go in search of gold, and we’ll end up broke”. Retro rock ain’t retro if it’s screaming in your face; it’s so very now, this second, that its freshness tingles on the tongue. It rocks, frankly, which Lovvers do, like all good lovers should. I wanna get sedated and ride the road with these men of convulsive body language and fuzzy amplification. Sedation a must given what’ll follow in my wake. Send my bank statements back, marked Fuck you.

Until this fascination’s shattered by an American with the raging speed horn; a man whose interactivity with a crowd split twain by forwards-backwards momentum borders on the unsuitable for children, on the post-watershed. What is a watershed anyway? The man’s shedding enough: touch face moistness and dribble; something about baile funk? Fuck you.

Or funk you, whatevs, you’re calling the shots, shooting the shit, shitting us up; you and your boys butt-wiggling through electro-jerk arrangements coming on like keyboard demo functions filtered through the three lowest levels of an 8-bit system’s hell. Cutting Pink With Knives? Cutting my cranium with serious tinnitus more like, you goddamn dicks. Hurts nice. I wanna dance ‘til my feet fall off, ‘til the next split when I won’t play anything and demand, ish, that he that does gays things up. Gays things up? That’s hardly prim and proper now is it? Fuck you.

I love these guys. They’re so much more than your rockers are. They’re mine to keep, too; you can’t touch ‘em ‘cause they’re sohotrightnow, power-upped and exciting like Best New Bands Should Be. Tingle. So, seriously. Fuck you.