Paul Simon

Did Lewis need Clark, or Gracie need George, or Abbott Costello? Because Simon still needed Garfunkel, and if his first solo album aimed to dispel that impression, it fails. The style evolves but Paul lacks Art's vocal range, and Roy Halee's flat production still assumes his presence to fill the aural gap. Plus, what Simon's music really lacks here is a hook. He can find it when he wants to ("Mother and Child Reunion," "Duncan," "Me and Julio Down By The Schoolyard") but others drown in a morass of their own meanderings ("Armistice Day," "Papa Hobo," "Congratulations") and some otherwise promising songs ("Run That Body Down," "Peace Like A River") simply fall short for one stylistic deficiency or another; it's not that I mind the musings, mind you, but they really ought to go somewhere rather than die off into the runout groove. Everyone is permitted their transition and it fortunately didn't take him long, but that doesn't mean I'm going to give this overall muddled effort a pass. The 2004 reissue adds demos of "Me And Julio," "Duncan" and an unreleased version of "Paranoid Blues;" the former is as uninteresting as such demos usually are, but the "Duncan" demo is a rather different song and the evolution of "Paranoid Blues" adds at least some variety. (Content: adult themes on "Duncan.")

🌟🌟

Trooper, Hot Shots

World famous in Canada! The stench of Randy Bachman's production is all over this group but all the songs you thought American bands did and actually didn't are here, right down to the classic "Raise A Little Hell" which I've even heard variously attributed to Kiss and Twisted Sister. (Eh.) This compilation needs a better engineer — they solved the tape hiss warning on the back of the CD by apparently mastering it at half-volume — but there are solid choices such as "General Hand Grenade," "We're Here For A Good Time (Not A Long Time)" and a slightly altered "The Boys In The Bright White Sports Car," and what's not standout is still enjoyable even if it's not always distinguished. In fact, the choices are so solid it pretty much eliminates any need to buy any of their other albums, making it a wonderful greatest hits collection and a disastrously poor business choice all at the same time. Hosers! (Content: no concerns.)

🌟🌟🌟

Brass Construction II

Their first effort, innovative as the jazz-funk fusion might have been, was indelibly marred by their intentional use of words solely as colour to yield an album both musically sophisticated and thematically sterile. Good thing they didn't make the same mistake twice. For sure there's no ambiguity about the themes this time around, such as "Screwed (Conditions)" and "Get To The Point (Summation)," and the slightly charged "Sambo (Progression)," but for however affected or blunt the titles and exhortations are the message of social improvement is solid and the music is funky. The stylistic variations don't distinguish the tracks as much as I'd like and a couple overstay their welcome a bit, but the disco bridge on "Screwed" livens it up, the album's single slow track ("Blame It On Me (Introspection)") is a welcome groovy change and the party atmosphere runs all the way through to "What's On Your Mind (Expression)" at the end. Still, as good as the other songs are, the standout is the incomparable "The Message (Inspiration)," ignominiously familiar to younger generations as the core sample for N.W.A.'s "I Ain't Tha 1," whose unmistakable piano bassline, horn flourishes and honeyed vocals remind us through nearly five minutes of pure joy that "everything is going to be all right." The second time around is always better. (Content: no concerns.)

🌟🌟🌟🌟

Snowy White, Goldtop

Shed a tear for the session musician whose voice is not their own, but while he deservedly kept great company his output in his own right frankly disappoints. Although White's skill is considerable as a guitarist it's less so as a songsmith, meaning the most compelling part of this compilation is not the solo work which represents the majority of the running time. While "Highway to the Sun" is competent enough, "The Time Has Come" and "Love, Pain And Sorrow" are slow and maddeningly flat, and his almost cookie-cutter blues tracks (both solo and as Snowy White's Blues Agency) largely lack any special hook or style; likewise, of his brief time with Thin Lizzy, only "Renegade" really cooks while "Memory Pain" is just as dull as the rest. The remaining small number of tracks are remarkably variable in their breadth as well as in their quality: a Richard Wright instrumental selection ("Drop In From The Top"), one of the weaker pieces from the interesting but commercially stillborne Wet Dream, two underdeveloped rehearsal (!) Peter Green tracks, two live Al Stewart pieces ("Dark and Rolling Sea," "Carol") both undermined by flaccid production, and the sole gem, the previously 8-track-only extended "Pigs On The Wing" (from Pink Floyd's Animals) with White's clarion guitar bridge between the halves unheard on any other format. It's quite a curio for fans, but you'll pay a price to get it, and there's little else to recommend the rest of what's here. (Content: no concerns.)

🌟

REO Speedwagon, Hi Infidelity

A furious, freewheeling arena rock masterpiece, formulaic themes, by-the-numbers melodies and strictly perfunctory licks and solos notwithstanding, the performance is flawless, the execution is seamless and the result is peerless. While "Follow My Heart" falls relatively flatter than the rest, "Tough Guys" is just plain fun, "In Your Letter" and "Shakin' It Loose" mix in a little doo-wop for stylistic variety, and "Don't Let Him Go" and "Take It On The Run"'s gentle touch on human imperfections may be hackneyed but still comes across as mature and thoughtful. And despite the title, the wistful closer "I Wish You Were There" still makes us long for that forever relationship just out of reach. I've never wanted to skip a track and I've never wanted to miss a moment. Sure, call the production cynically commercial pablum, but since when was giving the customer what they want a sin? (Content: S-bomb on "Tough Guys," mild adult themes on "Someone Tonight.")

🌟🌟🌟🌟

Phish, A Picture of Nectar

It's worth it to read the band's dedication to Nectar Rorris, the album's namesake beverage(ur), in which they gratefully acknowledge he "was happy to give us a gig despite our lack of experience, organization, or a song list long enough to last two sets." All that is true, and all that is reflected here with the possible exception of the latter. Indeed, this hippie gemisch of nonsense vocals and multi-instrumental brilliance ("whatever you do, take care of your shoes") doesn't really cook until somewhere into the third track ("Cavern," named for no good reason) and then it just takes off. Exceptional moments: the smooth, skillful guitar jam leading "Stash," the scatty imprecise jazz of "Magilla" b/w hot guitar licks and sweaty tropical rhythms in "The Landlady" (!), and rhyming "tweezer" and "freezer" in (what else?) "Tweezer" and its closing encore. On the low end, besides the first two weaker tracks, "Glide" is pretty dumb and the mercifully short "Faht" and "Catapult" just feel shoveled on to fill out that second set, but they're all balanced out either by the beautiful juxtaposition of graceful keyboards and agonizing drug withdrawal in "The Mango Song" ("your hands and feet are mangoes, you're gonna be a genius anyway") or the hard-driving indictment of how badly the educational system serves berserkers in "Chalk Dust Torture." Nectar was onto something. They were on something. But it all worked out in the end, didn't it? (Content: S-bomb in "Poor Heart," drug references in "Stash" and "The Mango Song.")

🌟🌟🌟🌟

Modest Mouse, The Moon & Antarctica

If all the Moon and Antarctica have in common is being lifeless and difficult for humans to inhabit, then that's this album too. The low points begin early with "3rd Planet," a grimy disheveled mess obsessed with "f*cking people over" (possibly the listeners), but later on also the atonal, cacophanous "Tiny Cities Made of Ashes" and the interminable "The Stars are Projectors." There are flashes of talent: I liked the introspective "The Cold Part," though mostly for the musing harmonies and overdubs and not much else, the solemn if moronic "Gravity Rides Everything" with its Radiohead-style distortion, and the clever "Paper Thin Walls" which might have sprung fully formed from the head of David Byrne. A couple tracks like "Dark Center of the Universe" and "A Different City" even get up enough verve to groove to. Still, Isaac Brock's snarly navel-gazing is as tedious as the affected clang association lyrics, and the quality of the production doesn't generally match its erratic composition. The band nevertheless thinks more of it than it deserves, as evidenced by the 2004 reissue/remaster with four tracks as reworked for BBC Radio 1; though actually longer than the originals, they're tighter, and potentially proof this band's got something more to offer after all. (Content: F- and S-bombs, violent imagery on "Wild Packs of Family Dogs.")

🌟🌟

The Beatles, Let It Be

Stop it with the gauzy historical revisionism: Abbey Road was truly their last album, and this is just the flotsam that washed up after. Lennon was gone by then and the remnant, coasting on their own formidable narcissism (including George Martin), finished up a batch of half-hearted live noodles and jams and dumped it all on Phil Spector to deal with. So he got out the Wall of Sound, and for his controversial efforts polishing their turds into sequins, he was excoriated by three of the four (Lennon, ironically, the only one to get the joke) and half of all the record critics across the universe. For my money, it's still the same pretentious crap it was in the bootlegs, it just sounds better (which Let It Be... Naked, McCartney's ill-advised anti-production remix, likewise misunderstood). Now, being the Beatles, it's still a good album and stands the test of time, and I still love the schmaltz. But don't you dare think for a minute I'd tolerate this kind of laziness from anyone else. (Content: no concerns.)

🌟🌟🌟

The Greatest of Pleasure

Even (or perhaps particularly) obscure bands resurrect; Pleasure's original keyboardist, now a prosecuting attorney, brought back a new incarnation of this Portland soul-funk group in 2019 after disbanding 38 years prior. Fans trying to turn back the clock, however, will find a lot of flaws in this retrospective collection: their 1975 début and 1982 swan song are completely ignored, the Afrofuturist "Future Now" comes across as me-too and helplessly dated, cookie-cutter later singles "Yearnin' Burnin'" and "Take A Chance" don't impress and while "Glide" was indisputably their biggest hit we certainly didn't need three versions of it (not least leading off with a limp rap remix overdubbed by Psycho). Fortunately the good singles made it here too including sublimely rich "Ghettos of the Mind" and the insistent sax solos on the superfunky "Joyous," but the best outings are the sensually lyric "Sassafras Girl" (with its softly hooting primal intro yielding a gauzy tropical feel) and my favourite track, "Get to the Feeling," mixing husky vocals, infectious beat, strong horns and an unerring baseline that's never off point. (So funky, in fact, that they basically ripped it off for "The Real Thing" and nearly as good, so we'll forgive it.) Add on the boisterous "Let's Dance" and "Foxy Lady" and you've got a real party. We wish their revival luck because they'll have some big shoes to fill: while this album proves their discography wasn't always distinguished, more often than not it still delighted. (Content: no concerns.)

🌟🌟🌟

10cc, How Dare You!

An exemplar of prog rock taken to a possibly illogical extreme, it's still a nearly unmitigated marvel to listen to. Complete even with overture, every single track is practically an operetta in miniature: laments of the bullied ("I Wanna Rule The World"), the mentally ill ("Iceberg") and harassed parents ("Rock 'N' Roll Lullaby"), wrapped up in boyhood sexual awakening (the bluesy "Head Room") and a layer of nostalgia ("Lazy Ways"). Any regret of the album's sole weak track (the desperately witty but monotonous morality play "Art For Art's Sake") is quickly dispelled by two more of exceptional skill: the saucy yet studiously formal "I'm Mandy Fly Me" featuring a remarkable bridge instrumental between the two halves of a shaggy stewardess story, and the absolute best of all, "Don't Hang Up"'s tale of a relationship on the skids, with heartfelt performance, perfect orchestration and knife-sharp wordplay ("when the barman said whatcha drinking, I said marriage on the rocks"). The subject matter may occasionally be a bit startling (how dare they, indeed!) but its originality never falters and neither will your interest. The CD reissue adds the lightweight "Get It While You Can," not of the same studio quality or level of wit as the rest of the album, but a worthy track all the same. (Content: adult themes.)

🌟🌟🌟🌟

Oingo Boingo, Nothing To Fear

In retrospect, Only A Lad's frenetic energy level was probably unsustainable. Although the manic funk headbanger "Insects" is every bit as crazy as you'd hope, and the oddly sweet "Wild Sex (In The Working Class)" may be more laidback but no less exuberant, the rest of the album perplexingly doesn't quite reach those heights. "Nothing To Fear (But Fear Itself)" does have some of the same old transgressive zip and "Reptiles and Samurai" is inexplicable but fun, but then there's the (ironically) brainless "Grey Matter," the (likewise) sluggish "Running On A Treadmill," and the disagreeably preachy "Why'd We Come" which squares badly with the group's then-dominant nihilism. The remainder (particularly "Private Life") are solid, and largely even good, but not anywhere near as punchy. You'll still get a mostly decent album, but if you were looking for another refreshing slap in the face you won't get it here. (Content: adult themes on "Wild Sex" and "Nothing To Fear.")

🌟🌟🌟

Pet Shop Boys, Behaviour

What impresses me most about this album is how, simultaneously and effortlessly, it captures one man's experience and yet everyone else's all at the same time. Who hasn't struggled, in ways small or writ large, with their lovers ("So Hard"), or evolved your views and profession ("Being Boring"), or felt the despair of a failed relationship ("The End of the World"), or, for that matter, wondered what to do with October, the absolute worst month of the year ("October Symphony")? Only the otherwise competent "How Can You Expect To Be Taken Seriously?" breaks the unity, however on target its criticism of shallow popstar humanitarianism might be, and Harold Faltermeyer's masterful co-production sharpens the beats to be as compelling as the lyrical vignettes. As evidence of their skill, consider "Nervously:" when Tennant came out in 1994 it became clear whom he wrote it for, and yet its universality of the trembling of falling in love seeps deeply into any human soul. I could see myself in that song; couldn't you? For an album as personal as this one must have been to them, how much more so its crystalline moments of humanity make it to the rest of us. Unfortunately, the Further Listening companion disc doesn't quite reach the heights of the main album, and the almost 11-minute "Being Boring" remix gets vaguely tedious, but U2 was wrong to dismiss their cover of "Where The Streets Have No Name" and their pastiche of Morrissey in "Miserablism" is right on the money. (Content: no concerns.)

🌟🌟🌟🌟

Men at Work, Cargo

Much as Wham! couldn't top their finest moment, these Melburnian new wavers lived in the shadow of theirs, but that doesn't make their sophomore outing a bad record. If you're expecting more of the infectious reggae of their blockbuster Business As Usual you'll be disappointed, but while none of the tracks here (with the possible exception of "High Wire") are as big a gut kick as the singles from that album, in some ways they're actually stronger. Although the leadoff "Dr Heckyll & Mr Jive" with its bloodyminded time signature is a bad way to start, "Overkill" is as good as anything they've done and the effervescent "High Wire" nearly as much; no less worthy are the anti-nuke "It's a Mistake," shades of the Police in the insistent beat of "Upstairs In My House" (with Colin Hay's piercingly clear vocals), the Sparks-esque "I Like To" and the richly mournful elegy of "No Sign of Yesterday." Not all is stellar: stylistically "Settle Down My Boy" is a little trite and "Blue For You" is a little lazy, though its callbacks to the first album should delight fans as much as closer "No Restrictions." Whether or not this is the album their fans wanted is another story, but it's no less a solid one, and sadly the last notable release of their brief discography. The 2003 reissue adds two fairly strong B-sides (the Far East fairy tale "Shintaro" and the fast if slightly underdeveloped "Till The Money Runs Out") and three bland live tracks. (Content: no concerns.)

🌟🌟🌟🌟

CKY, Infiltrate•Destroy•Rebuild

There are certainly some very worthy tracks on this hybrid punk/post-grunge outing, and its professional production avoids being overpolished, but where they succeed in technique they don't really measure up in style or variety. "Flesh into Gear" and to a lesser extent "Escape from Hellview" are hard-hitting and (especially the shifty beat of "Flesh") musically sophisticated, and there's a great post-headbanger's vibe to "Sporadic Movement;" likewise, the album's solitary ballad "Close Yet Far," itself no shrinking violet, manages a level of mature soulfulness through its well-layered harmonies. But the rest of the album suffers a drudgerous samey-sounding feel, not improved by the generic grunge lyrics, and the more pop-ish "Frenetic Amnesic" and "Plastic Plan" almost have an unwelcome boy band influence that surely won't sit well with many fans. Its best moments dodge becoming another alternative album cliché, but unfortunately not by much. (Content: some violent imagery.)

🌟🌟

Jefferson Starship, Red Octopus

Of all the various flying contraptions this band has adopted and the local maxima they've reached, they've only ever had one perfect lineup and this 1975 album is its solitary record. A faintly demented combination of folk, fiddle, rock and Grace Slick's sonorous Joplinesque contralto, love is the theme and they sing it all kinds of ways (even the poor Japanese of "Ai Garimasū," properly ai ga arimasu yet inexplicably on the CD reissue as "Al Garimasū" as if he were some sort of nisei sportscaster). Marty Balin returns for some writing and lead vocal duty, most notably on the startlingly sexual lead single "Miracles" (with its slipped-in-the-shower saxophone), but for me the most remarkable part of the album is Papa John Creach's stratospheric, almost trilling electric violin on its two instrumental tracks. Another notable aspect: the faultless programming, deftly building its energy from the zippy opener "Fast Buck Freddie" and the first side's lighter feel through the big finale of "There Will Be Love" on the second. Their apparent concerted effort to make a more commercially friendly album clearly paid off, as well as successfully avoiding the overwrought psychedelia of their previous incarnation even if the lightweight lyrics never quite equal the sophistication of the musicship. Creach's exit in 1975 and Balin's and Slick's (first) in 1978 doomed this morph of the band to never fire on all cylinders again, so enjoy it and think of what might have been. The CD reissue adds the single of "Miracles," whose shortening is an indignity, but the 1975 Winterland Arena live tracks do possess some interest (especially the band introduction) despite unfortunately their recording after Creach's departure. (Content: adult themes on "Miracles" and "Sweeter Than Honey.")

🌟🌟🌟🌟

REM, Document

The end of the I.R.S. era for R.E.M., Document is as transitional as its position in their discography would indicate, and even the professional shedding of their college rock roots doesn't quite even its irregularities. There are genius tracks like the (deservedly) heavily rotated "It's The End of the World As I Know It (And I Feel Fine)," and the old jangle pop still yields refreshment in tracks like "The One I Love" and to a lesser extent the harder-charging "Fireplace," but Michael Stipe's more prominent vocals amidst the more competent production only serve to throw this outing's relatively underdeveloped concepts into sharper relief (the bizarre "Lightnin' Hopkins" comes to mind but "Exhuming McCarthy" in particular, a limp criticism of the Reagan era that's more repetitious than auspicious). "Finest Worksong" is a great example: the production is excellent, the mix is high quality, but the feel — starting from the very title, even — always evoked images of Soviet realism in my mind and its commentary on the American work ethic correspondingly comes off as hamfisted and obvious. A taste of yet to come bubbles up from the richly textured "King of Birds" where a double-tracked Stipe sings to and over himself, but the grim and grungy closer "Oddfellows Local 151," like a Reconstruction cast-off, ends up more retrograde than innovative. Green's release the following year was a clear departure from their earlier style; perhaps this album is evidence it had run its course even if it rewards on balance more than it perplexes. The reissue adds a B-side, several tiresome live tracks and two alternate mixes of "Finest Worksong" which aren't any better. (Content: no concerns.)

🌟🌟🌟

38 Special, Tour de Force

Band name and title notwithstanding, a middling outing that never leaves the chamber. With shades of REO Speedwagon, though they do it better, the album's formulaic hooks and tired rhythm guitar make for a flaccid attempt at arena rock that can't even get out of your garage. The first three tracks indeed are nearly indistinguishable and closer "Undercover Lover" is just dorky; while "Long Distance Affair" has some nice licks, the lyrics are lunkheaded, and only the power ballad "Only The Lonely Ones" has enough powder to fire. It's not all bad: when they stick closer to their Southern rock roots there's "Twentieth Century Fox" (not to be confused with the unrelated Doors track), and the folksy, entertaining "I Oughta Let Go" has a solid refrain, git-up guitar and saucy vocals. Unfortunately, that's not sufficient to rescue the record, and while I know their fans will shoot me, this album's caliber just isn't big enough. (Content: mild adult themes on "Undercover Lover.")

🌟🌟

Taylor Swift, Folklore

She certainly surprised us all with this one, that's for sure. Unannounced and unheralded, somewhere in the depths of lockdown (though as if anyone over a certain income level actually obeys), she still managed to lay down 16 tracks and almost 64 minutes of music and of a very different sort than what she's wrought recently, too. Stylistically there's a little less grit and a little more earth, largely callbacks to her earlier country works ("Betty" particularly), and to her credit her voice is the star more than any of the arrangements are, even the well-placed contrast of Bon Iver's Justin Vernon's vocal guest turn in "Exile." But the production (largely by Aaron Dessner of The National), while technically superior, is languid and often disappointingly insubstantial, leaving too many same sounding songs stuck in neutral. The singles off the album ("The 1," "Cardigan" and later this month "Betty") do have an appealing style and are even vaguely headbobbers, though I thought "Mirrorball" was stronger, but they're probably the singles because frankly they're the exceptions. Similarly, the writing has problems of its own: I give her props for some solid topicality — "Epiphany"'s COVID-19 overtones by far, the song most deserving of the "quarantine album" sobriquet — but a lot of the wordplay is simple (the rhymes verge on childish sometimes) and her timing sometimes gets caught by the meter ("Peace"). Beyond that, however, what I found to be this album's greatest fault was how hard it is to personally identify with. Now, verily, I am not a 30-something girl from Pennsylvania richer than Croesus with a record contract, so perhaps I'm judging this a little harshly. But while I get the sadness for "The 1" who got away, Scott Borchetta is clearly a pig ("Mad Woman") and I certainly intuit what it's like to say goodbye separated by plastic, I was also young but I wasn't that dumb ("Cardigan"), I don't particularly care about the "Invisible String" of love between her and Lord Masham, and I've never had so many relationships apparently go so wrong nor wish to dwell on them so deeply ("August" and "This is Me Trying," among others). If the songs at least had some unique musical hook or stylistic flourish that would be something, but they haven't, so we don't. Take "The Last Great American Dynasty" as the best and worst example: this is, at least for the first two-thirds or so, a remarkable historical meditation on Rebekah Harkness and the strange tragedies of her life, an Al Stewart-like outing with some of the best writing on the album, and then it turns out it was only relevant to Swift because she bought her house ($17 mil). Now it comes off like another rich girl trying to make us care about her purchase, but unless you're in her tax bracket we end up caring less about Rebekah Harkness because of that revelation which is now, for better or worse, the lasting impression of the song. It took some effort to finish this album amidst so many heartrent pieces that for all their pathos felt ultimately so meaningless, and for music that aspires to be as universal as the title implies, I came away with the distinct impression these songs meant far more to her than they do to me. In these days of plague that may make them great catharsis and possibly even enjoyable in small bites, but they are not enough for what they are, and after listening to sixteen of them together I must gently question their basis for an album. Physical releases add a seventeenth track; although I certainly admire her industriousness, I'm not sure I'd call "The Lakes" worth the additional price for most of the same reasons. (Content: S- and F-bombs, some adult themes.)

🌟🌟

Parliament, Up for the Down Stroke

At its nadir this album wastes almost twelve of its 40 minute running time on an interminable noodly nothing even the six-string genius of Eddie Hazel couldn't save ("The Goose") and a biliously regurgitated beat from the title track ("I Can Move You (If You Let Me)"). Of the remaining EP length, though, it's sheer genius. Yes, there's some delightful gospel flavours ("Testify," "Whatever Makes Baby Feel Good"), airy psychedelia ("I Just Got Back," with a truly beguiling whistled bridge) and pompously ponderous musings ("Presence of a Brain"). But the two best tracks by far are "All Your Goodies Are Gone," the bitterest, schadenfreudiest, meanest anti-love song anyone with a broken heart will wallow in for sheer venom, and the title track, with its stupendously trippy signature reversal sure to leave the dance floor littered with bodies. Just pay no attention to what Geo. Clinton is doing to that woman on the cover, skip tracks two and three and thank me later. The 2003 remaster adds slightly extended versions of "Testify" and "Up for the Down Stroke" plus the previously unreleased party funker "Singing Another Song," and is definitely worth the hunt. (Content: album cover notwithstanding, no concerns.)

🌟🌟🌟🌟

They Might Be Giants, Lincoln

On the back of the CD is a hand-drawn diagram of, um, "something" that if you sit down for a moment and compare the dimensions would yield something slanted, silly and slightly unstable if anyone actually tried to build it. It's a good analogy for the album, in fact: eighteen tracks of quickly tossed-off off-kilter word play ("life is a placebo/masquerading as a simile") set to a bunch of styles thrown into a hat and shaken around a bit, with no particular reason other than fun and no dwelling on them for very long. If you tried to take a serious seat on that, you'd slide off and hurt yourself, so don't. Like much of their output the babble for its own sake means they miss the chance to matter, but the spare production is clean and appealing, and they still get in some witty social commentary now and then (particularly the terminally snarky closer "Kiss Me, Son of God," but also to a lesser extent the unapologetically nonsense "Shoehorn With Teeth") and even some warped musical references ("Where Your Eyes Don't Go" interpolating bizarro snippets of Bach). Best pun on the album: "Everyone looks naked when you know the world's a dress." With such platitudes on offer, who can resist? (Content: no concerns.)

🌟🌟🌟🌟