Welcome, to “the music journalists hymn”. Please do kneel at the foot of levy and leave as much or as pitiful material good as you so desire in the collection bucket. The critically acclaimed crowning-ceremony will take place down the folly.
We are the culture greedy bastards who promote hangovers in abstinence, spreading its pressed ashes in a wake of three hundred synonyms, and a grounding of smutted Arbiter.
Alternatives? No. Acknowledge, this three-minute paradox of noise- when called to accounts is this an instant classic or, is this an opportune pacifier dangled from the left-hand dial of a rhythm-ticking playroom, waiting to blow. Who decides? Who deprives?
We must take note, draft novel, get the wrangle out our heads and fold the tissue creases of some yellow stained binder into little paper cranes of influence; watch them unfold haphazardly beneath a gust of glorified direction and linear note lyricism and take flight- to limbo or to certitude.
Lice are a force to be invested in but who has the capital here? When a thought leads to adverse, leads to a great big fuming hit to get folk through the dreaded drear of present, are we overfed yet? Will there be seconds or has the taste-making course run to fulfil.
This is not your captain speaking but spectacle is there for the choosing. From one to another, Lice will come out on top. Because they’re fucking great.
The new issue of So Young is out now. It’s SOLD OUT in print but you can read the digital edition below.