GROWING UP ABSURD WITH THE THOMPSON TWINS
Scampering around in the British dancepop maze is a painful business at best. You wind up like the little white lab mouse that keeps bashing its head on the same old wall in search of a breadcrumb that's probably old and stale anyway; or worse yet, clean and white and tasteless, some insubstantial, artificial, scientific Wonderloaf that'll make you wither up and die if you don't throw up first.
GROWING UP ABSURD WITH THE THOMPSON TWINS
FEATURES
by
Sylvie Simmons
Scampering around in the British dancepop maze is a painful business at best. You wind up like the little white lab mouse that keeps bashing its head on the same old wall in search of a breadcrumb that's probably old and stale anyway; or worse yet, clean and white and tasteless, some insubstantial, artificial, scientific Wonderloaf that'll make you wither up and die if you don't throw up first. But what the hell, I've got nothing better to do and CREEM is calling, so scamper I did, up the Hollywood Hills to the Greek Theatre, squeezing through the impenetrable forest of shoulder pads and cap visors and MTVeenies to sit outdoors in smog thicker than Dale Bozzio to watch the Thompson Twins. And to marvel at the splendidness of it all!