Imagine The Fall holed up in a Soviet bloc crack den. They’ve shoved their last coins in the electricity meter and have just minutes to record 4 blistering songs. All the needles are on red. Someone might be holding a gun to their heads.
Fragmented, shattering, desperate, howling. I don’t know what they’re singing (they’re Spanish and I’m a monolingual dolt) but they sound like they’re pleading for their lives. Or they just got dumped. Love can be vicious and its wounds bloody.
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