"let's dress up like cops, think of what we could do"
Glass shards and sparrows fall out of the speakers, fenderized with the promise dust of 1977, the failed call of London but NYC still rings with this record. The leather-tender basslines and solid accurate drums do not miss, but of course we cannot not talk about the guitars, the clanging glistening chime and slash of steel strings complicating one another's situations, Verlaine and Lloyd blurred into a coruscating framework of light spiraling into the sky. The kiss of death, the embrace of life, there I stand beneath the marquee moon. See you there?