Bye, Bye, Bye, Bye

I’ve just heard the sad news that Chuck Berry has died.

As a teenager, when I was learning to play guitar, I figured I should look to some of the greats to pick up some tips from, so I bought a Berry best of, and this has always been one of my favourite tunes of his:


Chuck Berry – No Particular Place To Go

Pub-quizzers will know that an often-asked question is what his only UK Number One was. Answer: “My Ding-A-Ling”. It would be a shame if that’s how he’s remembered. Up until 1994, that was looking likely. Luckily, in that year, one of his songs was featured in an iconic scene from an iconic movie:

For me though, there was a cover version of one of his songs which I’ve loved ever since I bought the album it features on, and pretty much every time I saw them play live, they ended with this:


Status Quo – Bye Bye Johnny

I could go on picking great rock’n’roll records that Chuck wrote or performed – the list is almost endless – but I’ll leave it at those three, in the hope that others out there will post more.

Suffice to say, we lost another legend today.

More soon.


A History of Dubious Taste – 1986

Recently I have posted the following two assertions:

  1. That it annoyed me that the reruns of Top of the Pops currently airing of BBC4 weren’t being shown in the concurrent week as they had been originally broadcast, and
  2. That I had made a New Year’s Resolution to get on top of the thread which this blog was originally created for: to go through every record I had bought, in sequence.

You can imagine, therefore, how irritated I am with myself that here we are, over halfway through February 2017, and I still haven’t written a single post about records I bought in 1986 and so I’m already out of sync with my younger self, 31 years ago.

I don’t really like just posting a song and saying: “And then I bought this….”, I like there to be a story to tell, a bon mots to drop about why I bought it, what was going on in my life – but sometimes that’s all there is to it. I just bought it because it’s ace.

For example, in January 1986, I bought this, a record I still adore today, and strictly speaking should have featured in my sporadic “How To Do A Cover Version” thread by now:


The Damned – Eloise

I mean, I could tell you (again, I’m sure I must have mentioned it before, it’s one of the first things I mention to practically anyone I meet for the first time…) about the time I sang karaoke with Captain Sensible (CLANG!!!!), but since I can’t actually remember what song we sang, the anecdote pretty much ends there.

Anyway, hopefully this should start me back on track.

By which I mean, of course: more soon.

A History of Dubious Taste

As I mentioned a couple of posts ago, I pledged that I’d crack on with the autobiographical aspect of this place, irrespective of the fact that I don’t necessarily have any entertaining acid drops to relate to the records in question.

So, with nothing to say except that you should trust me here: suspend your pre-existing prejudices about this lot and give this a listen. This is just great. I love this record, especially the bit where Knopfler goes all Springsteen mid-way through it.

Here’s the just-shy of fifteen minutes epic that is:


Dire Straits – Telegraph Road

See? Told you.

More soon.

An Open Invitation (2)

A re-post follow-up to my earlier post, with a bit of extra info.

Shortly after I posted this first time around, Bob Stanley – he of Saint Etienne fame – wrote a piece for, I think, The Guardian, about how Bucks Fizz were a much under-rated pop band. I agreed, and sent him a copy of the post that follows, which he duly retweeted to all of his many, many followers. Happiest moment of my blogging life, right there.

So go on, write something, send it to me at and let’s see where it takes us.

Here’s my original post:

Early 80s Pop Perfection (kinda)

Ok, so perhaps I should have warned you that things would get worse before they got better. Perhaps I should rename this blog “The Austerity Measures”.

Anyway, it is now 1981. In the three years since the purchase of Darts, whilst I haven’t bought any more records, I’ve immersed myself in my Father’s record collection (predominantly Johnny Cash and Kris Kristofferson albums), as well as borrowing albums from my relatives (The Beatles). I’d also developed a taste for recording songs from the radio, and used to prepare a new tape each week, which I’d force the family to listen to in the car as we drove to visit my grandparents on a Saturday afternoon.

But in 1981 I found my first two obsessions with pop music. The first: Shakin’ Stevens. With the benefit of hindsight, I can probably look back at my love for the snake-hipped Welshman as a continuation of my interest in those doo-woppy records a la Darts from the first post. But this was an obsession alright. I perfected the dance. I sat perched in front of the TV every Thursday waiting to hear his latest song on Top of the Pops (and, like it or not, he was always on there). I even had a Shaky patch sewn into my Parka coat (but under the hood, so nobody could see it, until I stupidly hung it up by the hood and had the piss mercilessly ripped out of me by my mates at school).

The second: Bucks Fizz. I adored “Making Your Mind Up”, their Eurovision winner, so much that I sat hunched over my tape recorder, ready to pounce, until I’d filled up one entire side of a C90 cassette with it just on repeat, over and over again, for 45 minutes. I must have driven my parents to distraction playing that. I think this was probably my first real awakening of “those” kind of thoughts, teenage boy hormones which had been bubbling below the surface since I first clapped eyes on Debbie Harry a couple of years earlier. And here were two blow-dried guys whipping the skirts off two blonde girls, to reveal much shorter skirts and a whole lot more leg. Frankly, you could keep Cheryl Baker, it was all about Jay Aston for me. That’s her in the rather fetching white blouse on the record cover down there. Phewwww-ee, yes please mama.

These two songs feature in the same post as I bought them at the same time, from the same store, and were the first records I ever bought. Again, as with Darts, not a record store, but rather the record section of a supermarket my mother dragged me round a couple of times a month, called Rainbow, just outside Peterborough. Me wandering off to browse through the racks either here or in the newsagent nearby in the shopping arcade, John Menzies, if memory serves my correctly, became a regular occurrence from now on.

On this particular Saturday morning, I was desperate to buy something rather than just window shop as there was to be a disco, as they were still called back then, to be held that evening in the local village hall. Thrillingly, the disco was called “Jungle Boogie”; even more thrillingly it had been made known that the DJ would play any records that solitary groovers such as I cared to bring with them, and I was desperate for a piece of that action (see what I did there?). The two singles in today’s post were my weapons of choice.

Bear in mind 1981 was a time when great things were happening in the world of pop. Adam and the Ants were at the height of their powers. Human League’s “Dare” was about to hit the shops. The Specials had just had “Ghost Town” at Number One. There were so many records I could have bought that would have made me appear impossibly cool. Instead what do I buy? Bucks Fizz and Shakin’ Fuckin’ Stevens, that’s what.

The night was memorable for two reasons: Natalie, an older girl from the secondary school I had just begun to attend, told me I was a pretty good dancer, and my heart swelled with pride, only to be punctured again moments later when I had to leave the village hall, unplayed 7″ singles tucked under my arm, after the DJ had refused to play them since they were “fucking shit, mate”.

See if you agree:


Shakin’ Stevens – Green Door



Bucks Fizz -Piece of the Action

Buy them here: Shaky and here: Bucks Fizz

PS  (1) – I’ll admit it: I still think Piece of the Action is a cracking piece of early 80s pop, and it always brings a smile to my face when I hear it. Partly because of Natalie; mostly because of Jay. Oh Jay. Sigh.

PS (2) – Shaky, not so much.

More soon.

Er…more soon. Hopefully from you.

An Open Invitation

January 1st 2017: I made myself a few resolutions about this place. Here they are:

  1. I will comment more on other blogs (I’ve been following folks’ blogs for years now, and have mostly been one of those people who read what’s been written, probably download the song(s) in question and left it at that. Now I write myself, I realise how gratifying it is when someone takes the time to leave a comment.)
  2. I will reply to more Comments. (I know I’m a bit rubbish at this. It’s nothing personal. I truly appreciate it when you take the time to say something about what I’ve written, I just don’t really know how to react to compliments in a way that doesn’t make me sound like an utterly sarcastic, ungracious twat. Working on that. There’s an exception here though: The Chain. In the same way as comedians stay off Twitter, I do worry that I may use up my best gags when I reply to your suggestions, so don’t be offended if I don’t reply when you contribute to that, it usually means I’ve thought of a gag but don’t want to spoil the next post. See, even writing that makes me feel like I have an overblown sense of my own importance. On The Chain, a like means I’ve read it and it’s in.)
  3. Write more of the original purpose of this place. (For the uninitiated, that’s to write about every record I bought in the order that I bought them. The most common thing that friends say to me is this: “I wish you’d write more of those autobiographical pieces.” I know what this means. It means: “When are you going to get round to telling THAT story?” It’s a belter, granted. I’ll get there soon. But, it’s tricky, since not every record has a story behind me buying it; sometimes I just went to Andy’s Records and bought a record.)
  4. Make this place more interactive than it already is. As someone who has always enjoyed writing and loved music, and who seems to have finally found a voice here, this has been something that I want to encourage in others. This has been a long-term aim, and some of my friends will attest that I have asked them to write something (they haven’t, bar one, which I’m reluctant to post since it says just too many nice things about me). Long-term readers will recall a piece that my brother wrote for me which you can read here. It’s annoyingly good (post-edit, of course).

So here’s the open invite: I’d love to hear from you on one of the following topics:

a) the first pop record that you ever bought or had bought for you

b) the record that everyone else says is a “guilty pleasure”, but which you see no reason to feel guilty about liking. Remember: there’s no such thing as a guilty pleasure. You just like a pop record, you really don’t need to feel guilty about it.

So: if you’d like to write something under one of those categories, please do, and email it to me at:

I promise to post what you have written. After editing.

And to get your writing juices flowing, here’s the post I wrote about the first pop record I had bought for me. I’ll repost the thing I wrote about the first pop records I actually bought for myself in a bit:

Cool Cool Kitty

No, don’t go. Really, this is just the start!

Picture the scene: It’s 1978 and me, my older brother and mother are visiting the sprawling metropolis that is Kettering. I am 8, maybe 9. We are in the record section of WH Smiths. My brother (and he won’t thank me for announcing this to the world) has persuaded my mother to buy him the single which is Number One: “Rivers of Babylon” by Boney M. Being a precocious little brat, I insist that she also buys me a single, and announce that I too want a copy of the same record. Mother, quite rightly, refuses, and asks me to choose another one smartish. My bottom lip thrust out in a massive gib, I decide I’ll have the next best thing: the Number Two single. And that, my friends, was “The Boy From New York City” by Darts.

And lo, my addiction to records began.

Ok, this doesn’t exactly fall into the stone cold classic category. Firstly, it’s a cover version. Not always a bad thing, and at least I can cling to the knowledge that the original, by The Ad Libs was produced by Lieber and Stoller, of whom I’m assuming you need no further introduction. Secondly, 50s-esque doo-woppy bands were ten a penny in the late 1970s and early 1980s (see Showaddywaddy, Manhatten Transfer, Rocky Sharpe and the Replays). But there’s something about this song that even now, 36 years later still makes me want to pop on a zoot suit, click my fingers and start pleading harmonically to “Cool Cool Kitty” to tell me ’bout the Boy From New York City”.

Go on, give it a go:


Darts – The Boy From New York City

Happy now?

More soon.

A History of Dubious Taste: The Formative Years

Disclaimer: This post contains four fucking terrible records. But stick with it. There’s four really great ones after that.

It’s funny how the most mundane of events can trigger long buried memories.

Don’t worry, I’m not about to go all gloomy and confess to years of abuse at the hands of a 1970s celebrity. Well, not unless you can count owning records by a certain band from the 60s & 70s as abuse.

And no, I don’t mean Status Quo.

Let me explain.

This week, for the first time in years, I went to the dentist.

I should stress at this point that I hadn’t avoided going through any lack of care for my oral hygiene – I’m no Shane Magowan, is what I’m saying. When I was a kid, my parents took me to the dentist regularly, and I had learned how to take care of my teeth to the extent that I’ve never had a filling, a crown or a tooth removed. I know you’re supposed to go to the dentist for regular check-ups, but I don’t go to my doctor for them for the rest of my body, and going to the doctor is free, whilst you have to pay to see a dentist. Why waste money just to have a bloke give my teeth a bit of a scrape every couple of months? Trips to the dentist firmly resided in the “If it ain’t broke, don’t mend it” category.

Well, this week, something broke, namely one of my teeth. I wish I could say it was punched out of me in a fight where I was defending someone’s honour, but what actually happened was I was eating a chocolate which suddenly developed a crunchy texture it hadn’t had when I first popped it in my mouth. At first I wondered if I was the latest victim of one of those “look at this disgusting thing that I found in my food” stories you read about every now and then, but it quickly transpired that the crunchiness was in fact a large chunk of tooth which had decided it no longer wanted to be in my mouth, and preferred my stomach instead. My stomach is considerably larger than my mouth, so I can’t really say I blame it for wanting to upgrade to somewhere roomier.

As it goes, the trip to the dentist was considerably less painful than I had expected: all he did was saw off part of the remaining tooth, prescribe me some antibiotics, and tell me I need to come back to have the rest either removed or a crown put in.

In fact, the most painful thing about the whole thing, is that as a result I’ve had this song, by a group whose schtick was performing “funny” parodies of popular hits of the time (on this occasion, “Rivers of Babylon“, “Matchstalk Men and Matchstalk Cats and Dogs” and “The Smurf Song“) lodged in my brain all week:


The Barron Knights – A Taste Of Aggro

Unbelievable as it may seem, that got to Number 3 in the UK singles chart in 1978.

I, of course, did not contribute to its sales. Oh no, of course not. Instead, the nine-year old me belligerently badgered my parents until they finally gave in and bought me their “Night Gallery” album from which “…Aggro” came instead.

At the time, I thought this record was the funniest thing I’d ever heard. I would listen to it over and over again, learning the words, laughing out loud long after the “jokes” had actually ceased to be funny.

Not content with annoying my family by playing this album endlessly, I decided I wanted to share it with my peers at school, and to that end I asked my Junior School teacher at the time if I could bring it in for a “Show and Tell” lesson.

What I should stress at this point is that we had never had a “Show and Tell” lesson before, and as far as I can recall, we never had another one either. I think the second of those two facts can be directly attributed to me.

These are the three parodies from “Night Gallery” that I subjected my classmates and teacher to: one of Heatwave’s “Boogie Nights”, one of Althea and Donna’s “Uptown Top Ranking”, (both fairly recent hits at the time, being from 1976 and 1978 respectively), and Tommy Steele’s “Little White Bull” (from 1959, so slightly less current).

Oh no, you don’t get off so lightly as to just be told what the chosen songs were parodies of: here’s the actual songs, placed in ascending order of awfulness.


The Barron Knights – Boozy Nights

The Barron Knights – Boy Scouts Out Camping

(I seem to have an horrific image of “comedians” Little & Large performing that on one of their shows, both dressed as Scouts. I’m not sure which is worse: that actually having happened, or my imagining it…)

The Barron Knights – Little White Bum

Yes, that last one really is about a young boy who liked, and was encouraged by his parents, to show off his bottom to the extent that he is entered into a Best Baby’s Arse Competition. Was that ever a thing??

When people say the 1970s were a different time, they really aren’t joking.

The only good thing I can say about these is that they introduced me to the original records, two of which I love (the Tommy Steele one, not so much). So, in the interest of balance, and moreover palate cleansing, here they are:


Heatwave – Boogie Nights


Althea & Donna – Uptown Top Ranking

Words cannot express how much I love Althea’s (or is it Donna? I have no clue which is which. Does that make them the 1970s Ant & Dec??) massive glasses and even more massive ‘fro combo.

If I lie back on the psychologist’s couch for a while, I guess this forced “Show and Tell” lesson was the first example of something which has characterised my life ever since – through all the mix-tapes I used to churn out at Sixth Form, the DJ’ing at college, the playlists I still happily compose at the drop of a hat, hell, even this place: a desire to share records with people. The notion that I owe all of those years of pleasure to The Barron sodding Knights is quite a startling one.

But I’m not done with embarrassing confessions from my Junior School days just yet.

Surprising as it may seem now, when I was at Junior School age I was considered to be a pretty bright kid, and was moved up a year as a result. This must have happened when I was about six or seven years old, and I, along with my year older than I classmates, had completely forgotten about it until it came to the time for them all to go to Secondary School and I was left behind.

That meant that I essentially had to repeat my final year of Junior School, a trend which continued when I went to college, but more of that some other time.

Anyway, that meant that I spent two years in Mr Land’s class. He was a nice enough chap, as I recall. He used to be in charge of putting on the annual school play and – and I only remembered this when the above came to mind – he encouraged his class in creative writing. One project he gave us was to write a children’s story for someone in the Infant School, placing them within the story, which now I think about is a quite brilliant way to engage kids in books and writing. He also used to hold a short-story writing competition for his class at the end of each term.

Now, all through my educational years, and when at Junior School in particular, it was considered that I had a great talent for writing. I was given blank exercise books and encouraged to just fill them with stories; I, of course attempted to write one long story. Ultimately, these just consisted of elaborate car chases, but the intention was there.

Ever since, I’ve wanted to write a novel. Many of my friends will vouch for the fact that every now and then throughout my life  I have announced I’ve come up with a brilliant idea for a book which I would start on right away.


Father John Misty – I’m Writing a Novel

Inevitably, I would write the first chapter, if that, before being struck with either writer’s block or a crippling realisation that I just can’t write well enough to produce such a thing.

Which is pretty much why I do this. A few years ago, I decided I was going to write about all of the dumb things me and my friends had got up to, or had happened to us, on nights out, which I would then try to string together into some kind of narrative structure and build a plot around. Needless to say, I didn’t get far when I realised – again – that writing a book is bloody difficult, that I didn’t really have the patience, stamina, self-discipline, determination or drive required for the task in hand. Instead, I decided to write them in bite-size chunks and post them here. I still get distracted and find myself writing about cover versions, or preparing a playlist for you every Friday night, or any of the other threads I’ve started here and got bored with after a while. But be warned: I’m currently working on pieces about all of the records I bought in 1986, so the main thrust of this blog should be returning more regularly soon.

Speaking of getting distracted, I have digressed again. Mr Land’s short story competition is where I was heading.

Because of my perceived talents in the field, I had just assumed, as did many others, that I would walk away with first prize every time the competition came around. But I was reckoning without my nemesis, a lad called Richard Crisp.

Every term, Richard would write essentially the same story, and every term he would win. Every term, without fail, he would write a story about a football match between two semi-fictional teams, say for example “Mods versus Rockers” (the names had absolutely no bearing on the story, he didn’t recount a football match as if it were a pitched battle on Brighton beach), but he would make classmates and teachers members of the teams, giving him scope to make a few jokes at their expense, and refer to incidents which had happened during the previous term.

So when my classmates all went off to Secondary School, leaving me behind with a new class who had never been invited to enter the short story competition before and thus had never heard any of Richard’s prize-winning stories, I saw my opportunity to claim the crown I so desperately craved. I would do exactly the same as he did: write a story about a football match between two random groups, and, just as Richard had done so successfully, would incorporate teachers and classmates alike into the game, with much hilarity undoubtedly ensuing.

But which two random groups would I choose as the names for the teams? I pondered long and hard over this, before finally settling on two which I thought were entirely appropriate and suitable.

Before I go any further, may I just remind you at this point that this was 1980. Granted, no longer the 1970s, but pejorative terms did not die the moment the 70s ended. And the two names I chose were still in common usage at the time, often bandied about in newspapers, or in sit-coms, and so I didn’t really consider what they actually meant. They were just words, as far as I was concerned.

May I also make it very clear that, other than in the context of this post, these are not words I would ever consider using nowadays.

I think that’s enough disclaimers. Allegations that “The lady doth protest too much” would surely follow if I carried on digging any further.

So, on what I was confident would the first of many triumphant wins, I stood up in front of my class, and in front of Mr Land, and began my story:

“It was the annual football match between The Poofs and The Pansies….” I announced.

“Erm…can I have a look at that please?” interjected Mr Land. I handed him my exercise book. He thumbed through it, a concerned look on his brow, before handing it back. “Okay. Carry on.”

I can only surmise that he hadn’t spotted the next sentence.

“And leading The Poofs out onto the field is their Captain, Mr Land….”

“I think we’ve heard enough of that now, thank you. Please sit down. Immediately.”

I learned a valuable lesson that day: never use words that you don’t understand. Which is why you’ll never find me writing about Pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis anytime soon.

As I hang my head in shame, this seems appropriate:


Spandau Ballet – To Cut a Long Story Short

More cringers soon.

There’s No Such Thing as a Guilty Pleasure

I’m a big fan of streamed comedy content, particularly that provided by the BBC on their iPlayer Radio app, and that’s my go-to place for easily digestible 30 minute chunks of funnies.

But when I want to hear something more substantial, which is a little more intellectually stimulating, but still fun to listen to at the same time, then its off the land of podcasts I journey. I listen to the big hitters, UK sides anyway, to Scroobius Pip and to Richard Herring. But my first port of call, always, is a chap I could listen to until the proverbial cows come home, tether themselves to an archaic milking machine, and do what the Good Lord intended, albeit in a falsely induced scenario.

I’m talking about Adam Buxton’s simply wonderful podcast, modestly called The Adam Buxton Podcast.

You know Adam Buxton. He was one half of Adam & Joe, the Channel 4 Star Wars cuddly toy recreators from the 1990s. (That does both Adam and Joe a massive disservice by the way, they did way more and were way funnier than just that).

You younger folk might recognise him as that funny bloke with a beard who pops up every now and again on 8 Out of 10 Cats Does Countdown, doing his “Commentar     Y Corner” (Not Welsh) about comments left by odd people on that there internet (which really is a game-changer, by the way).

No, not Alex Horne, the other one, the one with the better beard (I do have beard envy) and a laptop as opposed to a band and an egg. (I’ve linked to one of Adam’s appearances before. Do try and keep up, old chap. Here it is again. When Ó Briain, Lock, Carr, Richardson and Horgan, some of the finest comedic brains going, are laughing at what you’re doing, then you know you’re doing just fine. I could happily watch that forever.)

Anyway, a couple of weeks ago, Adam released a podcast where he was ramble-chatting – interviewing is not the right phrase for what happens on Adam’s podcasts; ramble-chat is perfect, and comes equipped with a great theme tune – to Marc Riley.

You know Marc Riley. Used to be in The Fall. Then was in Marc Riley & The Creepers (the clue was in the name with that one). Then was the Lard in the Mark and Lard Show on Radio 1. And now is the host of his own show on 6Music.

Anyway, about 20 minutes into the podcast, the following exchange occurs:

MR: Every now and then I will play “Toxic” by Britney Spears, not out of any kind of perversity, I just think it’s a great record, and I’ll maintain that if Diana Ross had made that record, or The Shangri-La’s in 1966, people would go “What a great pop record!”

AB: Plus, that’s the great thing about music and the art of the DJ, if I can refer to it that way, is that when you play a piece of music, it changes according to what’s around it – the record you play before, and the record you play afterwards – y’know, and it’s totally different. If you hear ‘Wichita Lineman’ on a mainstream radio show that only plays accessible country-sounding songs it sounds very different to ‘Wichita Lineman’ sandwiched in between a Pixies record and something by Polly Harvey, or whatever.

MR: Yeh, that’s dead true. I played “I Feel For You” Chaka Khan a couple of weeks ago, and the only violence I got was from a mate who sent me a text with a fist. But people are probably just thinking “Oh, I know what he’s doing, I’ll go and make a brew…”

AB: That’s a stone cold classic, come on…

MR: Yeh. For me it is. There’s no perversity at all, in the same way there’s no perversity in me playing “Yoo Doo Right” by Can which lasts 20 minutes, or “Supper’s Ready” which is 23 minutes by Genesis

AB: I think the nice thing about 6Music is that it’s got people used to the idea that you can hear all sorts of music and there isn’t that sort of silly snobbery anymore. Y’know, I mean it was Sean Rowley that used to do “All Back to Mine” and the “Guilty Pleasures” thing but that whole notion – I mean, I really like Sean and what he was doing – but I didn’t like that notion of “Guilty Pleasures”…

MR: No, nor me…

AB: There’s no such thing as a “Guilty Pleasure”, there’s a song that you like

MR: You either like it or you don’t like it…

AB: You don’t wander around going “Urrrgh I shouldn’t like this….”

MR: It’s basically all born out of the fact that some people want to just seem to be cool, and not admit to liking something that isn’t – in inverted commas – “cool”, it’s just rubbish. It’s not a guilty pleasure, y’know if you like “Waterloo” by ABBA you like it cos it’s a great pop record, there’s nothing shameful in that.

You can listen to the whole ramble-chatty thing (and realise why I keep referring to it thusly) right here

But before you do that, may I direct your attention to the tag line to this little blog of mine, which has been there since day one, and which I feel a weird sense of pride to hear both Adam and Marc echo: There’s no such thing as a Guilty Pleasure. I feel vindicated.

It’s no coincidence that I’ve posted “Toxic”, “Witchita Lineman”, and “I Feel For You” here already – long before that podcast came out, I hasten to add. May need to brush up on my Can and Genesis knowledge though.

Queen amongst them is Toxic. Seriously though: what a record. And partly written by Cathy Dennis, whose name will pop up here again sooner or later.

I don’t really like to post the same song twice, so here is one of the bonus tracks from the CD single of Toxic (what we used to call the B-side, many years ago), a remix by some chap called Armand Van Helden, whoever he is. (Don’t write in, I’m perfectly aware who he is. That there was irony, Alanis.)


Britney Spears – Toxic (Armand Van Helden Remix)

And you can listen to Adam’s podcasts – and I’d really recommend that you do – here.

More soon.