Goss poetry

Let's put it this way: It's probably easier to Sleaford Mods to like than to be liked by them. This had particularly Miles Kane experienced when he entered in the list of followers of the British and then the following answer was given: This music was born out of a hate for pretenders like you. You can leave gracefully Either or I will block you. Not only with this rather unique address is clear that there is Jason Williamson and Andrew Fearn give a damn interested in who she is now well, these apply to you, or in the worst case pushes the iLike button. Precisely for this attitude of total refusal to feed their popularity, from the consequence to push everyone and everything on the head, because you can not be bothered simply on consensus and compromise, because as how the two come, just does not make any great sense ,

But the easily disgusted Pitbull view of two on the cover speaks for itself, which then is also reflected in the lyrics of the fourteen songs. If it can ever find a role model and that's God's sake not Mike Skinner aka The Streets then recall Williamson's relentless tirades in tone and choice of words most likely to Punk doyen Mark E Smith, the Unwortdichte is as high as the hipster Dogs and emergence in English cities, and since we are already where the mods want us. Because basically they hate both species equally, whether they put their stinking heap on the sidewalk (The Corgi) or by phone through the area strut (All You Zombies, tweet, tweet, tweet), everywhere screaming stupidity and mindless Poserei order the bet on every corner it smells to the God of mercy and of improvement is nothing to be seen far and wide.

Here, the two rockers never to be mouthpieces of the underclass, they know well enough that there are enough idiots here and there that can make life hell. It is important: We are real, we are lucky (Tied Up In Nottz) that's what counts. If this is the punk of today, he is musically not completely wrong, the good forty minutes Goss poetry range from post-punk, rumbling, tinny cheap beats and occasional, somewhat clumsy attempts beautification with sax and synth. The sound is just as bleak and barren as the circumstances will be rapped over here, why you should grab the anger over the daily recurring misery (Live Ables ***) in a highly polished production, if it brings the crappy scenery much better. Well, now: the Britpop in the bin and a can of beer on it! mapambulo: blog