A revisit to the sacred halls of Redbrick, for a crack at the new Essential Albums feature. It had that classic cinematic One Last Job feel to it, where I got to play the disgruntled vet. With eyes squinted, I sit at a rusty typewriter and begin:
“Some bands write songs full of subtext and allusion, pleading for someone to crack their heads open and see just how clever it all is in there. Not the Pixies. Their best songs shoot past at a hundred-miles-per-hour in a cloud of gibberish. All that poncey stuff was left to the listeners and journalists.”
And true to form, that’s exactly what I do.