Now this is more like it. Managing to be both properly romantic and in possession of a scruffy, oikish libido that involves bruising and knocking things over, this sharp blast of Lahndaan garage-punk finds Johnny Cooke (a kind of gaffer-taped Johnny Rotten) lustily eyeballing groping couples on the train and muttering to himself and wondering why his very own Hot Girl keeps fucking off. “She comes in colours but she won’t let me see,” Cooke murmurs, more curious than petulant. “She comes in colours, then she goes with her back to me,” he elaborates, and somehow you know he’s not recalling some talky snit that concluded with her click-clacking out of the pub just like The Rules told her to do.
One reservation might be that its slightly-too-good production has taken the edge off of things somewhat, but fuck it. Get your record sleeve. You’ve pulled.