This is still one of most amazing, alluring and simply surreal records to emerge from punk rock -- or simply rock. It's a total one-off, and it hasn't dated a bit. Where the hell did it come from? You can trace the lineage of the Clash or the Pistols back to their roots; Poly Styrene simply seems to have emerged completely formed, as if what she took from punk wasn't a formula but a license to truly be herself. She is a wonderful lyricist, both critiquing and celebrating modern consumerism; for Poly, there's something both fascinatingly alluring and horrifying in the plastic throwaway society. Really, the closest you'll come to this record are J.G. Ballard's 1970s novels such as Crash and The Unlimited Dream Company. The title track -- about an obsessive-compulsive (as a result of rape?) -- is one of the most haunting love songs you'll ever hear. All this plus Styrene's banshee wail and Rudi's wild sax. So wonderfully alien -- next to it, Bjork's eccentricities looks like a tryhard wannabe. No wonder the band split after this; what was there left to say?
–Brad
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