Imagine that the lads from Gang of Four, enjoying their retirement, start reading too much Beat poetry. Get hooked on depressants. Lose interest in their guitars, and lose even the modicum of singing talent they once had. But keep the melodica. And the politics. They move to D.C. Lose their accents. Put out an album of tuneless trip-hop experimentia, each song way too long. Interesting concept. Boring album. At least the Gang of Four didn’t have anything to do with it.
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