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On Ladyhawke


On Ladyhawke

My daughter stole a copy of the Ladyhawke album. Not just any copy: this one has exclusive digital content. She’s two. I don’t know how many Ladyhawke is. We were at HMV in Doncaster. For the benefit of readers not conversant with the Socialist Republic, Doncaster isn’t very good. Anyway, she stole this thing. Fuck knows how the sirens didn’t go off, or what would have happened if they had. “So, sir, let’s go over this one more time. The compact disc just found its own way underneath the baby, is that correct?” They must get this kind of thing on the hour in Doncaster. Anyway, they (the sirens) didn’t. And now we have a copy of the Ladyhawke album, with exclusive digital content. And, erm, it’s good. It’s OK. I don’t know whose idea it was to turn her into Belinda Carlisle. Seems a bit unnecessary, cos on the more idiosyncratic numbers like Paris Is Burning and From Dusk ‘Til Dawn she’s really a lot of fun. Let’s have a look at the sleeve. Pascal Gabriel. Fuck Pascal Gabriel. Pascal doesn’t understand the punk rock. Ladyhawke understands the punk rock. But she wants the cake. Fuck the cake. Literally. Why not? The cake has nothing to lose. In the parallel universe where this is on Flying Nun in 1985 it’s the record of the year. But in this one it isn’t.

posted on Tuesday 6th January, 2009

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