So declares the innocent young thing in the advert for everyone’s favourite horses and horse riding weekly publication.
So what’s this got to do with the lovely (if slightly dim) Alison Goldfrapp? Well, la Goldfrapp, in the throes of her retro-chic lifestyle, doesn’t seem to be satisfied with foisting endless monotonous monosynth dirges on us that aren’t even worthy of Gary Numan’s Oxfam parcel. No she’s gone and resurrected that classic, BBC-annoying, theme of the thinly-veiled-drug-reference.
Drug references in music are quite acceptable, don’t get me wrong, I’m not gonna get all high-and-mighty on your asses while I’m sat here in Angry Towers surrounded by my crack-whore assassins, oh no. Drugs are cool, kids, and don’t let The Man tell you otherwise. Go out there and write songs about them, write movies and books about them (but please don’t put Courtney Love in them, talentless cumbucket that she is), but get it out in the open. Don’t think you’re clever just because you wrote a song that, on first glance, appears to be about combining your love of all things equine and dancing in some sweaty club ’til your tits are about to fall off.
I want to ride on a white horse, indeed…not since The Stranglers flaunted Golden Brown and The Shamen treated us to Ebeneezer Goode have the BBC looked so daft by all at once trying to appear prim and proper, banning records that mention evil drug taking and still blindly playing this stuff because it doesn’t have a photo on the cover of the artist with a needle hanging out of their arm.
In the midst of all this, though, props have to be given to Musical Youth for Pass The Dutchie, I mean those kids had real balls appearing on Blue fucking Peter and banging on about how it was all about living in a big family and passing the cooking pot around at meal times. Respect where it’s due brothers, keep smokin’ dat haaaaaash.
Anyways…I’m getting off track, here. Alison Goldfrapp….RAGH! Just fuck off, will you? Look, I’ll show you how rubbish Ride On A White Horse is:
There you go, scientific proof that Goldfrapp are shit. You don’t need Carol Vorderman to interpret that for you…
Right, spleen duly vented, nursey tells me it’s quiet-time now, so crank up the amp, stick on some Tangerine Dream and warm up that lava lamp…
As always, let me know what’s getting your goat, llama, sheep or whatever in the world of pop. Answers on a postcard to : firstname.lastname@example.org