1467327_10151882215933789_231549211_nI always find that you have to make certain preparations before you review music, help you get into the right frame of mind, you know, something that will let you access the creative world that the music appears to emanate from. So as I sit here in my smoking jacket and deer stalker, monocle and plus fours with the latest single, Tweed Jacket, wafting through the parlour from the depths of the wind up gramophone, I come to the same initial conclusion that I did when reviewing their full length fab and groovy waxing, Dinosaurs Ate My Caravan. They are all quite mad, bonkers, touched, bananas, non-compos – Doolally Tap as we used to say in The Prince Albert Victors Own Poona Horse.


Their mission to seemingly keep the past alive by mixing its most quintessentially English strands is summed up adequately in a single that oozes Wodehousian whimsy, Stanshall-esque surrealism, Pythonite punning (the line “I feel the need, the need for Tweed” is just genius) and musically overlaps Edwardian music hall, cocktail bar cabaret and Pete and Dud public school satire.


With the Bonzo Dog Doo-Dah Band a thing of the past and the Pythons bowing out gracefully, maybe these are just the chaps to fill the comedic-musical vacuum. Know what I mean…nudge nudge, wink wink!

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Musician, scribbler, historian, gnostic, seeker of enlightenment, asker of the wrong questions, delver into the lost archives, fugitive from the law of averages, blogger, quantum spanner, left footed traveller, music journalist, zenarchist, freelance writer, reviewer and gemini. People have woken up to worse.


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