As an eleven year old, I fell in thrall to Deja Vu. It was my first taste of the holy sacrament that is The Rock Album. Immediately, I was seduced. The stiff cardboard, almost mock leather, cover. The sepia tinted photography. The promise of new stories, more complex than those told by Chicory Tip or Edison Lighthouse, my former fancies.

I had, literally, no idea who they were but loved the way they looked and loved the way they sounded. Only later, did I read about the craziness, the competitiveness, the contractual conflicts. All I heard was magic.

And, despite my subsequent Punk led adventures, rebellion fed Reggae binges or drug addled House experiments, C and S and N and Y – have always been quietly present. A hidden treasure. A guilty, if you call it that, pleasure.

The track I’ve selected may not actually be my favourite. It’s certainly not their best. It’s from one of their many comeback albums but it carries their essence. Sounding slightly fucked up, slightly fucked off. Simultaneously careworn and carefree. Perfect poetry one minute; Off the wind on this heading, lie the Marquesas. We got eighty feet of the waterline, » Continue Reading.