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(REVIEW) SUEDE Head Music (1999)

Carlos Frederico Pereira da Silva Gama

Jan 25, 2012 (Updated Ago 10, 2015)
Originally released on

Sheer brilliance of Suedes early releases all but gone, party-like: its 1999.
Offering some hand epic sods, Suede finally attuned with aftertaste UK limp glam, lyrical blitz,
lava lamp production. Boys (Brett Anderson, Richard Oakes, Mat Osman, Simon Gilbert, Neil
Codling) backs in tow. All the way, done they own? Handsome episodes.

Like a love its Electricity. Trashed all purposes here. Drum the rump beat. Bigger you tame
me. Adrift, ragged mushrooms!
Chewing-gun know-how locked-in. Devoured by tight-fist radar. Off this rat-a-tat, collisions.
Bow-like sketch drags in Electro. Alien nations, Savoir Faire.
Cant getEnough said.
Song 3. Pumping overdrive busying around. Brinkwomanship for Stone Age roll-calls. Chugging
booze carriage. Drivel spirits embedded-in. Woo-Hoo. Sounds cool.
Everything will flow through late Modernity. In every etched travelogue, so many games to play.
Millions vanishing eras at eyesight speed. Parallelisms of micro catastrophes taking stock of
remains. Hesitant Brett-on-woods flagships the simmering Utopian decay. Trucks, jetstreams,
jobs, marriages. Disorientation chained in digital swirl. Acquiescent zeitgeist right to disagree
within the convenience call. Cathartic recalcitrance traumas let us know.
Tickling pendulum soaked down into Steve Osbornes murmur. Piano torching heartstrings
ancient Suede pursuit. Bass standstill. Echoey people say lullaby.
Sultry infection. Breaking doves nest with Duran Duran. Generous sketch around the fountain.
Stars down the umbilical noose, cigarette-shape, gasoline-taste.
Asbestos. The omega to The Birds' alpha Byronism. Unassuming minor-key cascade. No
window-dressing for the lasting effects of fever dreams. Polyphonies lilting jazz over filthy
hearts. Detached from spiky carryings, a Brett from the past, wounded finesse against the laser
beam siren. In backstreet corners, detourning suburban girls want their boys like they want it.
Pinnacle of Suedes cruel beauty.
Tiptoeing hamsters dam, Brett nearly kept teeth clean. Oh, give him whipping instead. Head
music. No cult for little devils.
Sycophant Codling man, boldest guitar sleaze since Slade. No way sister Anderson. Hes
gonna step on youTo make pianos. Stupid!
Shaking by neon bulbs, city treetops far too high. Fiddle spikes memories. Gurgling midlifecrisis stoned to ground all fallen falsettos.
Indian Strings. Signposts of bleak disconnection. Gripping estrangement provides Brett soulsearching kairos. A majestic sweeping engulfs his voice, vacillating tambourine.
Backwards lullaby, seemingly He's Gone B-Side. Switch compressed folk for keeping head
down. Insatiable obsession. Sadeness percolating through Oakes peaks.
Trade Union Jack for crack. Smoke, social vibes left-field? Sorry-TV, soaring melodies. Bretts
party. By the sea, left ego afloat. Muddle neon impressionsSee ya...Under the shags.

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Savoir Faire
Cant Get Enough
Everything Will Flow
Shes In Fashion
Head Music
Elephant Man
Indian Strings
Hes Gone
Crack in the Union Jack