In the previous episode, our heroic young lads had emphatically declined Steven Spielberg’s offer to become the 90’s version of The Monkees, making the preternaturally wise decision to head to the studio and record their second album. Prior to the recording, the darlings of Britpop had toured for eighteen months, during which time I am quite certain they purported themselves with the utmost propriety and decorum.
Funny things happen when people hang out together in close quarters for too long, and sure enough, Supergrass entered the studio bickering with each other over the usual silly shit bands bicker over—girlfriends, loyalties, the label, the album title, ya-da-ya-da-ya-da. Having only come into the studio with two songs, they had a lot of work to do, and really didn’t need all the interpersonal noise.
Meanwhile, questions abounded! Would the sudden stardom, long months of touring with the utmost propriety and decorum and the desperate cries of fans who wanted to hear I Should Coco, Part Two break the spirit of our dear boys, rendering them klutzes in the studio and making them regret blowing off that lucrative deal with Spielberg? Or could our heroes overcome the self-imposed difficulties, the enormous weight of expectations from their label masters and the listening public as well as the dreaded jinx of the sophomore slump to produce a work worthy of the name Supergrass?
Fuck yes! In It for the Money is WAY better than I Should Coco. Supergrass lets it rip on In It for the Money, combining hard, punk and melodic rock in a power-packed lo-fi extravaganza slightly softened with the occasional acoustic arrangement and a touch of soft jazz. While it doesn’t have the relentlessness or social consciousness of Rancid’s And Out Come the Wolves, In It from the Money certainly qualifies as one of the stronger rock records of the decade. Cute was completely abandoned for an edgier, sexier feel, a shift confirmed by two vitally important data points: I have zero songs from I Should Coco on my fuck playlists, and four from In It for the Money. The best rock ‘n’ roll puts you in the mood to grind, and In It for the Money hits the sweet spot.
On the flip slide, there aren’t too many quality records that begin and end as weakly as In It for the Money—it’s a custard-filled maple bar with all the good stuff in the middle. The title track opens the album, a piece that comes across as three fragments rudely patched together—the first almost gothic, the second a rather unimaginative attempt at a build and the third a harmonic rock segment that plays more to their strengths but doesn’t fit lyrically or musically with the other two parts. The closing track, “Sometimes I Make You Sad,” is an experimental disaster, featuring a heavily filtered Gaz Coombes vocal that sounds like he’s singing from the bottom of a toilet. I fully understand and respect their desire to do a 180º and distance themselves from their status as the band responsible for “Alright,” but they could have achieved that more effectively by deleting those two tracks, placing “Richard III” in the pole position and closing with “Hollow Little Reign.”
“Richard III” has nothing to do with the king whose death at Bosworth Field ended the silly Wars of the Roses . . . or with the fact that he wasn’t really a hunchback . . . or with the fact that he did some good for the common people . . . or even with the high likelihood that he was a scheming, murderous asshole. The sparse lyrics seem to address the futility of escape from the humdrum of daily life, but really, the music is what matters, and opening with the dissonant chord combination and punk sensibility of “Richard III” certainly dispelled any notion that the boys wanted to hang out in adolescence beyond their years.
That dissonant chord combination begins by alternating the root chord with the flatted fifth chord (A to D#), creating an edgy, delightfully evil sound. They double-down on the odd chord strategy early by using a C-D-D#-F rise as the lead-in to the all-out bash rhythm of the verse, inserting a non-sensical off-key minor scale into the mix. The effect of this unexpected sequence is equivalent to the excitement of rough foreplay, as in “Don’t fiddle with the buttons, baby, I’ll just rip it off,” and following it with relentless drive tells me these fuckers (figuratively speaking) mean business. If Supergrass had chosen to continue the song in the same vein, “Richard III” would be remembered solid punk song with a little flair, but they change positions (again, figuratively) for the chorus, moving to a C-G#-G combination where Gaz bends the blue notes in his vocal like a man in heat.
I know you wanna try and get away,
But it’s the hardest thing you’ll ever know.
Read those lines in the context of sex and try to tell me there isn’t some serious double entendre going on here! I don’t make this shit up, people! When Gaz Coombes repeats the line, “Trying to get atcha, tryin’ to get atcha,” my diddle goes all a-flutter—so much so that the appearance of a Theramin in the instrumental break fails to register until well after the song is over and “Good Vibrations” comes to mind during the post-fuck cigarette. No one in the band slacks off for this one—Danny Goffey beats the crap out of those drums, Mick Quinn fills the ground with penetrating bass and Gaz cranks out hot guitar and an even hotter vocal, navigating the strange scales with cocky passion (double entendre intended).
We leave the sweaty mosh pit for the sweaty dance floor as soon as we hear the clever opening guitar riff of “Tonight.” Gaz opens with a Keith Richards-like guitar attack, making things more interesting by avoiding the flatted third of the blues scale until he shifts from A to D. The chorus involves yet another unusual key change to F major; and the bridge gives us another with its D-A-C-G pattern. As mentioned in my review of I Should Coco, Supergrass was one of the best when it came to making unusual chord changes, and this skill is on full display throughout the album. As the song heads towards the fade, the band pulls back and allows a horn section with supporting to piano to add some texture and give any dancers in the audience time to recharge the batteries for the high-speed sock-hop style finish. “Tonight” is probably more suited for the grind of a rock club environment than the heavy bruising in the mosh pit, but hey, I’m always ready to rock to whatever you’ve got!
Even the heartiest rockers need to shake it up from time to time, but what we don’t need is light and cheerful (aka “Alright”) . . . we need something with a little soul in it. “Late in the Day” fits the bill, starting as an acoustic love song and ending more along the lines of a rock ballad. The chord changes are again magnificent and off-the-norm, with the main pattern taking a roundabout path through a set of on-and-off-key major seventh and basic chords to find its way back to the root. The beat picks up in the chorus, and the alternating tempos and keys somehow combine to form a holistic composition. The lyrics aren’t much to write home about (except for the tantalizing line, “We’d slip off down the oily way,” which is probably only tantalizing to a filthy mind like mine), but Gaz takes control with an appropriately moody vocal and brings this one home a winner.
“G-Song” brings back a little oomph to the party in the form of a bouncy rocker enhanced with rhythmic variation and a key change in the break. Early-stage Supergrass seemed to suffer from some kind of phobia when it came to song and album titles: “G-Song” is named after the song’s key; “Richard III” reflects their habit of applying common names to songs (Richard, Fred, Brunhilde, whatever); and the album’s title was selected by the record company after getting fed up with the band’s procrastination in the matter. It’s more of a quirk than anything seriously disturbing (a far cry from Keith Moon driving a Rolls into a Holiday Inn swimming pool), but does tend to echo their relative indifference to lyrics at this stage in their career.
“Sun Hits the Sky” features a simpler chord pattern in the verses (F-Eb, G-F), placing the emphasis on the driving beat instead of the chords. Yet another brilliant chord change occurs in the chorus where the band shifts to D major, offsetting the D-A dominant pattern with an extended stay in G minor. The lyrics are typically opaque but I love the way the words sound, especially in the chorus:
I am a doctor, I’ll be your doctor,
I’m on my way, you won’t come down today,
Live for the right things, be with the right ones,
Or they’ll hold you down, they’ll turn your world around.
The Beatles were particularly strong in that skill, and since Supergrass music at this point in their careers was message-light, coming up with euphonious lyrics was critical to their success. Early Supergrass songs are easy to sing along with, especially if you don’t mind that the words don’t add up to much.
“Going Out” is a mid-tempo rocker integrating organ and a horn section with close harmonies that are quite Beatle-esque. This is the song that led to a spat between Gaz and Danny, with the latter accusing the former of writing lyrics designed to exploit the tabloids’ exploitation of Danny’s romantic goings-on with Pearl Lowe (who eventually became his wife). Danny must have been hypersensitive about the whole thing, for the lyrics are pretty much a nothingburger, a mild warning that the paparazzi will catch up with you sooner or later, at home or on the club circuit. Compared to Ray Davies’ “Other People’s Lives,” it’s not much of a diatribe. Putting all that noise behind, “Going Out” is a pleasant experience, a catchy tune with a strong beat, suggesting that Danny therapeutically took out most of his anger on the drum skins.
Supergrass dials it down for “It’s Not Me,” a reflective song dominated by acoustic guitar strumming supported by piano and a horribly annoying synthesizer that comes close to ruining the entire piece. From a melodic perspective, I find “It’s Not Me” the loveliest song on the album, with Gaz revealing impressive range and sufficient command of the emotional content in the lyrics. It’s a classic coming-of-age story where one learns that expanding awareness of the surrounding culture engenders feelings of separation and isolation—the differentiation between self and expectation. There have been a gazillion songs written on this topic, but I get the sense that this one didn’t come out of the pop formula playbook but reflects Gaz Coombes’ sincere feelings during a time of life transition—a transition made more difficult by his presence in the public eye.
Another great chord sequence accompanied by a rhythmic shift awaits us in “Cheapskate,” one of a more subtle variety involving the simple difference in tone between minor and major chords. The verses consist entirely of A minor variants, and minor chords always feel a bit “off,” communicating sadness, wistfulness, edginess or unrequited desire. The lyrics in the verses are therefore entirely appropriate, as they describe a tension shared by Gaz and his companion, both of whom feel a bit “off” in relation to society:
Lift me up, and move a bit closer,
Holding on to what I know
She’s the one who plays with fire,
I see a side you’ll never know
The chorus marks a shift to the A major chord, and as major chords tend to be uplifting, we goddamn better get some uplifting lyrics—and we do:
I need someone to be around,
‘Cause I’m breaking into life,
Somebody stop me,
‘Cause I’m looking for my, looking for my high
That rise in spirit is intensified by a rhythmic change from loping to driving and the emphatic appearance of electric guitar in distortion mode. Often the simplest moves are the most effective (she insists for about the hundredth time, thank you Count Basie), and the excitement that results from that tiny change from the flatted third to the major third is palpable—it’s hard not to want to stand up, jump in and sing along.
While this attention to a single note change in a chord may seem excessive, its importance will be underscored when we get to Pulp’s This Is Hardcore and hear an example of a songwriter completely blowing it.
The next two songs foretell a mellower, moodier future for Supergrass, songs that serve as precursors to Supergrass and Road to Rouen. “You Can See Me” is a melancholy minor key piece about the disconnection between public figure and real person, and the corresponding insistence among fans that the public figure is the real person and therefore both knowable and available for purchase. “If you like me, you can buy me, and take me home,” Gaz writes, as if his person is embodied in Supergrass merchandise. While he tries to remind the fanatics, “You can’t see me, I’m not really there,” his tone indicates he knows he has embarked on an exercise in futility. “You Can See Me” wasn’t a single and doesn’t generate much discussion today, but from a lyrical perspective, it’s the strongest piece on the album.
“Hollow Little Reign,” which should have closed the album, has also unfortunately languished in obscurity. It’s a mellow piece with jazz and funk overtones emanating from the Gm/Am11 pairing, wah-wah guitar and piano backing from Rob Coombes. This piece also uses a minor to major transition to highlight the hope in the one-line chorus (“some day when I can”), a hope immediately tempered by following the C major chord with an F minor. Danny does a fabulous job with the drum builds, and though I would have liked to hear a bit more in the way of innovation from the horn section, the extended instrumental passages are a net positive.
In referring to In It for the Money during an interview with Q magazine, Gaz commented thusly: “The fact that it has sold more worldwide than I Should Coco means we can sleep at night.” Going harder and grittier risked alienating the fan base, but the album’s success proved that what originally attracted fans to Supergrass wasn’t their cuteness but their irrepressible energy. That energy allowed them to overcome the bad vibes and noise, move their music forward and produce what would turn out to be one of the last great albums of the Britpop era.
With Blur having already moved on and Suede preparing to do the same, Britpop would die a horrible death within a year thanks to a combination of the Gallagher Brothers, Jarvis Cocker and a whole lot of cocaine.
Sometime after my fourteenth birthday, a girlfriend of mine came over to hang out and show me pictures of her recent trip to England. The pictures were yawners (she was chaperoned by her parents), consisting of London classics and Canterbury Cathedral, but she did bring one artifact that piqued my curiosity.
“You’re into punk, right? Well, this band is the hottest thing in England right now. They’re kinda punky, so I thought you’d might like it.” She handed me a CD with the cover pictured above.
“Eeew! Creepy! They all look like they’re on meth!”
“No, they’re really cute. I saw them on the telly.” I’ve always found it irritating when Americans return from a trip to the mother country and drop Britishisms to show how cultured they have become. I wisely resisted the urge to slam her ass, remembered my manners, thanked her for the gift and accompanied her to the Mission to satisfy her hankering for a burrito.
Later that evening I remembered the CD and decided to give it a spin. I was just about to place the disc in the machine when Dad walked in.
“What’s on tap?”
“Audrey just got back from London and brought me a CD of the hottest band in England,” I explained.
“I’m all ears,” he replied, stretching himself out on the couch.
“She says it’s kind of punky, so you may not like it.”
“Try me. Who’s the band?”
The cover photo had so distracted me that I hadn’t noticed. “Supergrass. The name of the album is I Should Coco, whatever that means.”
“Give it a whirl.”
We sat and listened to the CD without comment. To me it seemed to be a mixed bag: some songs tickled my libido, some songs left me flat and some songs were fucking irritating. When the disc stopped spinning, Dad asked me what I thought.
“I don’t know. It’s okay, I guess. I liked it when they let it rip but some of it was too . . . too . . . ”
“Teenybopper?” suggested my father, using typically passé Baby Boomer terminology.
“Yeah, I guess that’s it.” At that moment, my father made one of the most prescient, precise, economical and insightful comments on music that ever escaped his lips.
“Sounds to me like they can’t decide if they want to be the Stones or the Monkees.”
The teenybopper tinge of I Should Coco is justified by the anonymous Wikipedia author who made a game attempt to place the album in the larger context of Britpop: “The whole genre was seen as the voice of youth, but Supergrass, still teens themselves when the album was made, addressed the subject with more insight than most.”
The only problem with that argument is not all the band members were teens when the album was made. The songs were recorded in the first half of 1994, so Danny Goffey would have just turned twenty, Mick Quinn was already an ancient twenty-four and unofficial band member Rob Coombes would turn twenty-three. Only front man Gaz Coombes had legitimate status as an adolescent, turning eighteen during the recording sessions. Supergrass wasn’t The Hansons, whose brother-members were 15, 13, and 12 when their maiden album hit the charts, a production clearly targeted at the teenage demographic.
Maturity and age really don’t correlate as well as people tend to believe, and maturity isn’t an all-or-nothing kind of thing. There are adults in their fifties who have the sexual maturity of an adolescent and there are adults in their twenties who exhibit far more emotional intelligence than their more “mature” elders. I Should Coco contains songs that celebrate youthful freedom and independence as well as songs designed to please their mums—a not unpleasant struggle between breaking with the dominant culture and finding comfort in its bourgeois norms. There are times when they move too far up the saccharine scale for my tastes, and there are times they kick ass with confident command. To place them correctly in the larger context of Britpop, Supergrass captured the youthful exuberance but compared to Blur and Pulp, did little in the area of socio-cultural reflection.
While my “mixed bag” label still feels comfortable, I will say I find I Should Coco a more engaging listening experience than the album to which it is most often compared: Please Please Me. The comparison comes from the fact that I Should Coco was the biggest selling album in the U. K. since Please Please Me AND just happened to be a Parlophone release. Filled with lame cover songs and immature McCartney-Lennon offerings to fill in the album space between three enduring classics (“I Saw Her Standing There,” “Please Please Me” and “Twist and Shout”), Please Please Me is an album of historical value without much in the way of musical value. I Should Coco is 100% original, and some of those original songs are not only musically delightful but graced with occasionally insightful lyrics. There are indeed some turkeys in the mix, but the band’s innate energy serves to overcome many of its flaws. While the album had a significant impact in reinforcing Britpop’s status as a youth movement, The Beatles were obviously far more successful in terms of historical impact because the youth movement they inspired turned into a worldwide phenomenon, whereas Supergrass’s success was largely confined to British Isles. The Beatles completely conquered America while Supergrass remained a virtual unknown in the States: their first four albums failed to make the Billboard charts.
As it turns out, Supergrass didn’t want to be The Beatles . . . or The Monkees for that matter. But we’re getting ahead of our story . . .
I Should Coco embraces an approach to music composition implied by the album’s title, a cockney rhyming phrase that literally translates to “I should think so,” but because its intent is sarcasm, the actual meaning is “I should think not!” The opening track, “I’d Like to Know,” appears to be a typical high-speed pop punk bash that sets up the listener to expect a fairly standard chord pattern. In the extended first verse (the only verse that has its own “bridge”), they tease the audience with an unusual break from the E-D chord pattern, moving to A (normal) but following it up with a roundabout path to the E major root: A, C, D, D#. The band returns to the E-D pattern for two verse lines, then makes a dramatic and exciting move to another key (A), also taking an unusual route to get there—instead of the expected E-D-A (5-4-1), we get F-C-A (6-3-1), one chord higher than expected, one chord lower. That particular chord pattern change makes the spot between my legs gush with excitement, but Supergrass isn’t done yet, bless their young, testosterone filled bodies! Breaking with the expectation communicated by some of their singles that they were a 60’s revival band, they follow the verses with an extended hard rock fade that spans a decades of styles where they change keys multiple times (including a shift to D minor), introduce a 50’s-style guitar solo and somehow manage to piece these disparate parts into a completely satisfying whole. I remember despising the opening verse when I first heard it because of the “la-la-la-la-la-la” vocal frills, but in context, it’s another act of deception that dampens the listener’s hope that they’re going to hear Supergrass kick serious rock ‘n’ roll ass. When they do get to the ass-kicking, the impact is positively orgasmic (well, at least in my case). I love Gaz Coombes’ take-no-prisoners approach to the guitar, and though he would add more subtlety to his style over the years, he would always serve as a reliable source of power. “I’d Like to Know” is a fabulous opening number that gives listeners more than they expect and reveals what will become a common but never boring feature of the band—Supergrass was exceptionally good at creating drama through unexpected chord changes.
“Caught by the Fuzz” relates Gaz Coombes’ real-life story of getting busted for grass at the tender age of fifteen. He captures the essentials in his well-constructed narrative: the shock of capture; the usual manipulative attempts by the police (they call him “son”) to get him to rat out the dealer; the appearance of his equally hysterical mother who makes him feel even worse by telling him, “You’ve blackened our name/Well you, you should be ashamed”; and the threat of the male parent looming in the background ready to dish out even more painful punishment. The aspect of random selection and just plain bad luck is reinforced by the last line of each chorus where he expresses regrets for not staying at home on that particular night. The vocal captures the emotional rollercoaster of the experience fairly well, but I found myself much more moved by the acoustic version that appears on the In It for the Money limited edition bonus CD. The removal of constant guitar distortion allows you to experience the emotional nuance in the vocal.
“Mansize Rooster” is a bouncy-to-bash arrangement that reveals the inner dialogue of a young stud who has come up dry in his search for pussy and has begun to express doubt concerning his another-notch-on-the-dick approach to lovemaking. The song was a Top 20 single (barely), probably due more to the ear-friendly harmonizing in the instrumental passages than the song itself. The video is instructive, for it shows how teenage-gorgeous Gaz Coombes was and briefly highlights his androgynous appeal to all gender variations.
Now we come to the song that made Supergrass a musical staple throughout the Isles, the perfectly-crafted pop song, “Alright.” I don’t find the song as irritating as some other pop standards, and I think the chord changes in the bridge are absolutely brilliant, I do tire of listening to it pretty quickly, and I really had to force myself not to skip it on my third time around. The song relates the classic fun-and-exciting things teenagers do (hang out with friends, take up smoking, sample penises and pussies, drive cars with reckless abandon) and the joys that follow from a complete absence of responsibility. The song became a teenage anthem, and though Supergrass denied that was their intent, the denials were absolutely useless–no artist has control over how the populace chooses to interpret a particular work, especially when the critics are trying to stir up the crowds and increase circulation. Supergrass certainly doesn’t look like they’re in denial in the music video, which features them in various wacky settings doing typically wacky teenage things—a video so mass-market that none other than Stephen Spielberg, the king of cinematic sanitization, approached Supergrass about doing what would have essentially been a Monkees remake.
Oh, oh, oh for fuck’s sake.
We exit Disneyland for the edgier sounds of “Lose It,” where Supergrass (and this critic) feel much more comfortable. It’s not the best song on the album by a long shot but serves to clean the Clorox out of the ears left over by “Alright.” It’s followed by their first Top 10 hit, “Lenny,” a limited dramatic monologue (the single verse is repeated three times) about a guy so full of himself that he assures the broad he’s about to dump that she will die of lack-of-Lenny as soon as he exits the scene. Obviously, the lyrics had little to do with making this song a hit, so we look to the music and hear a spirited vocal and solid guitar work from Gaz, acceleration-provoking rhythmic changes, fast-moving bass runs from Mick Quinn and a stunning display of power and finesse from Danny Goffey on the drums. “Lenny” is a great mosh pit number, with plenty of opportunities for slamming and bruising as the tension rises, falls and rises again.
If there’s a theme to I Should Coco, it’s a comparatively modest version of the our-generation-is-different-than-the-old-fart-generation that rises from the grave every ten years or so like clockwork. The Supergrass take on generational differences isn’t direct rebellion (Britpop in general isn’t particularly rebellious), but about fascination with the “strange” (i. e., people who determinedly ignore standard cultural norms and live their lives in a sub-cultural pocket). This fascination with the strange was mentioned in “I’d Like to Know” (what they’d like to know is “where the strange ones go”) and even in “Alright” (“we are strange in our worlds”). The theme gets full treatment in the unshockingly titled song, “Strange Ones.” The strange ones are identified as those who inhabit the underground and who “look down from below,” superior and admirable beings that they are. That’s all very nice, but I found the most compelling part of the song in the tempo-shifting bridge where I could swear that Mick Jagger stepped in to handle the vocal for Gaz Coombes. The phrasing and pronunciation are pure Jagger, which is probably where my dad caught hints of a Stones influence. While I couldn’t find any documentary evidence to support the notion that the Stones shaped the Supergrass sound in any way, the aural evidence is pretty compelling.
The Jagger scent is definitely present in the next song, “Sitting Up Straight,” which opens with non-member but loyal brother Rob Coombes providing a piano intro that’s rather refreshing in context. The first verse is definitely sung in the Jagger style, particularly noticeable on the “oh yeahs,” but disappears in the more pop-oriented chorus. Gaz avoids Mick altogether in the next piece, displaying his remarkable vocal range over the Latin-flavored chords of “She’s So Loose.” It’s one of the more complex compositions on the album but not particularly well-supported by a vague story line.
“We’re Not Supposed To” features the boys playing with the tape speed to produce higher vocal pitch. They don’t quite cross the line into Alvin and the Chipmunks, but get pretty close. Without the silly trappings, the song is a pretty standard acoustic pop number that touches on the theme of strangeness in a curious and nonsensical matter, introducing a sort of competition about who’s stranger than whom. I chalk this one up to the old saying, “Kids will be kids,” which is why I never fucking want to have any.
Gaz goes full Jagger on “Time,” a song with a sexy mid-tempo rhythm that would have fit nicely anywhere in the Stones’ catalog, a notion reinforced by the touch of harmonica. This was the flip side to the “Alright” single, and despite the echoes of mid-period Stones, turns out to be a well-executed piece with delightfully heavy bass from Mick Quinn. It’s followed by one of the more interesting experiments on the album, the long-form “Sofa of My Lethargy,” with its psychedelically-filtered vocal and “She’s a Rainbow” harmonic touches supported by piano and Hammond organ. The lyrics are as opaque as most songs from the Psychedelic Era, shifting between fuzzy imagery and a cry to be recognized as different in the bridge/chorus. There’s even a long quiet jam that further tightens the links to the mid-60’s. I find the song refreshing in reinforcing the band’s desire to expand their sonic range.
Unfortunately it fades into the unbelievably sappy goodbye song, “Time to Go,” and whenever it comes up, I mutter “Yes, I completely agree” and remove the needle from the disc.
I Should Coco owes its stunning success to the band’s infectious energy and to perfect timing, coming out right when summer was about to begin and British teenagers were hungry for new music to support their warm weather escapades. The mania surrounding the band and the Spielberg offer left this very young band with an existential choice: to continue to explore musical possibilities or to go for the gold.
It is to their everlasting credit that Supergrass decided to reject the offer. Gaz Coombes also rejected offers to model with Calvin Klein and Italian Vogue. “It felt like cheating. Too easy. Short cut. Y’know? If you have to do all that to be the biggest band in the world . . . then what does that say about your music? And all that… [the publicity offers] would have just got in the way of the music. It would have taken so long to get to grips with. We’d have lost years.”
A wise person once said, “Maturity and age really don’t correlate as well as people tend to believe.” Oh wait, that was me! Right up there in the third paragraph of the review segment! Way to foreshadow, altrockchick!
We’ll see if they were able to pull it off when I review the hopefully ironically titled In It for the Money . . . right after another round with Blur and our first encounter with Pulp.