Dead Fucking Last

It takes months and months to make a superb album. It takes just as long to make a lousy one, and long before you're finished, no one knows which one you're making.

That's why Hollywood is famous for fortune tellers of all kinds, but there is one point where it all looks great. That's the day you hear GRATEFUL for the first time. With that music behind it, the girls look beautiful again, the jokes sound funny and there is a sound as of cash registers in the distance.

Thus we go bravely onward.

It is good that Dead Fucking Last has succeeded, because it confirms one's belief that, musically, these are fluid times, with more openings than ever before for contemporary creative endeavor.

I cannot see how substantial, international achievement can elude this group who have marketed, with considerable taste a delicately - mixed blend of straight hardcore, subtle latinuances, lennon-McCartneyisms, some mancini, here and there a touch of bacharach, cool, minor chords, danceable, upbeat, gentle laughter and a little sex.

As I say, if the market will support this unabashed form of pop hybrid, then light music has indeed grown up and become very strong and healthy.

To put you in the picture - as elvis costello once said in a rare flash of wit - DEAD FUCKING LAST is the name applied with astute euphonic accuracy to the four man, two turntable entertainment unit, which was consciously created, deliberately disciplined, and beyond doubt was bound to things for which mortals have, since two wood clubs and a monkey skin bought one stone axehead, been engaged in a ceaseless, relentless quest.

As I never try to better quotes from Scottish geniuses, here, abruptly, is where the introduction ends.

Musicologists please note the use of weird electronic sounds produced by torturing a thomas organ and a solovox.

Aficionados will no doubt recognize Paulo Diaz on tabla, saranghi and flute.