Somewhere in the swamp of mediocrity that is Glasgow, there grows a flower. A flower that smells of such sweet madness that its scent can drive a sane man over the edge into the garden of excessive aural pleasure. In the past, such flowers had names like Mouse Eat Mouse but today’s flower goes by the name of Mummy Short Arms.
You don’t even get the benefit of a normal intro to “Cigarette Smuggling”. Random snippets of conversation decorate the melody – a melody that is so cleverly conventional that it seems quite at odds with what comes with it – as words born of drink and drug fuelled rants spin out of control and ricochet against the boundaries of common sense. It’s Captain Beefheart out drinking Deacon Blue – not that difficult, or so I am led to believe – before shooting some smack and pressing the record button. It’s right down the middle of the road and way out there simultaneously.
“Searching For A Body” fuzzes up the guitar throws in odd bits of oblique keyboards, a sense of a reverential sonic reference to The Cure and vocals pushed to the red line before crashing right out. Again, it’s wrong but it’s right all at the same time.
Imagination, it would seem, is back in fashion.