If pop ate itself, this is the pop centipede - IN SEARCH OF SPACE #219

Meghan Trainor doesn’t appear to live in the world. Perhaps her brain is kept in a vat of iodine plugged into some psychotic Norman Rockwell Barbie-and-Ken four-square blocks of Mcarthyite America, or maybe she’s a member of ISIS determined to bring down western civilisation, and like a devilish mastermind has figured the best way to despatch infidels isn’t by blowing a bag of nails into your guts in the bathroom of a service station Little Chef but to flood the market with such harrowingly, ennui-inducing tripe that any member of the public listening to the radio will be compared to hang themselves with a belt, or queue up at the nearest bridge or high building.

With the Body - IN SEARCH OF SPACE #218

“I don’t really like most people in the world, or trust them. The guns are less of a thug or violent thing and more of a separation between us and society.” – Lee Buford – Drums and Programming.

The Body ought to have been called something more obvious and accurate, perhaps “I don’t even like music” or “I drink to die”, maybe go outside the norm and be called “The world is not our home”: all monikers used by the band on shirts and various other sources. All would be appropriate as answers when a beaming colleague asks you on a Monday morning “What good music did you hear last week” and you spent the entire bank holiday weekend listening to a sound that is either the audio equivalent of the motor oil, blood and brain matter tramped into a pub carpet following a vicious stomping, or the last gravity-garbled sounds as an experimental spacecraft breaks up as it enters the corona of the sun with the crew screaming onboard.

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