Lung-limbering breath of fresh air and a almighty puff on the inhaler of the lord jesus right here.
Perhaps we have now truly bored ourselves to tears with grubby garden shed guitar tickling from New Zealand and the search for robot-wrestling tekno of tomorrow, but change my nappy, it feels good have this late seventies gospel squad around to cast-out these dreary autumn evenings. Yes, we are completely absorbed in the warmth of Lulu Collins’ music, even if only as a sin-riddled spectator.
Her bellowing, rhapsodic gospel soul sounds like she’s got the blues in an irreversible chokehold - the lofty, volcanic rejoice echoing over the HURLING drums and racing, rock-slide of guitar and rhodes overseen by her backing lads who, once all rolling together, could generate enough energy to heat an empty airport hanger.
While I can whimsically imagine the US must be teaming with stuff like this, perhaps a much more tangible fantasy is a lifetime of dust-huffing, price-squabbling, b.o.-battling record shop antics and never hearing anything of such radiant pedigree.