is there anyone left alive who remembers gene? and where do old brit-pop stars go when their careers die?
oh, gene. how we laughed at the time--but that joke isn't funny anymore.
still we laugh. but, believe it or not, time has been kind to ... this particular track, at least. and a b-side no less! i admit, i've a constitutional weakness for mellotrons and guitars that sound like organs, but this really is a compelling little record.
it's interesting how often our interpretation of a record and what is meant by the artist--the intention, if i may be so bold--are so often at loggerheads. for instance, i've no idea what martin rossiter is going on about here, slight variations on a theme of being slightly ill and committed to bed rest, and a girlfriend who keeps telling him, you know, sorry about the bruises, old chap, but i've got to run. how is there even a doubt that this girl doesn't love him? (or is this irony? ooh.)
anyway, the best part of the record, the highest point in the gene catalog--attaining olympian heights, one might say--is the middle eight. the title phrase is repeated six times, w/ building intensity. such force is put behind this idea that irony really goes out the double-decker bus. which says another thing about pop records : we always use them, not as they were intended, but for our own greedy, selfish little purposes.