Death provokes odd, random memories. We used to listen to this album Paris a lot when I was heavily into MDF and paint effects and was working alongside a gang of middle-class dropout shopfitters. We were doing up a clothes store in Norwich (to which Jack the Mogul now supplies Tinchy Stryder Star in the Hood wear). McLaren was surely the mogul’s mogul – note how terrible his singing is, yet how totally convinced, and convincing, he is that the matter is otherwise; it makes it work. But then who whom has tempted Catherine Deneuve out of her apartment and onto their (debut) album would not be full of confidence?
It’s a great song, I think, very lovely.
[*There are one or two PG rated scenes, for younger blogistes, and for daftburger]