Rock’n’Roll Syphilis: Jesse Malin’s Glitter in the Gutter
If this album was a bald eagle wrapped in the Stars’n’Stripes and bombing a non-threatening Middle Eastern country, it could not be more American. If rock’n’roll can still be used as a euphemism for sex, then Jesse Malin is rock’n’roll syphilis: time-old, persistent and dangerously catchy.
Richard O’Brien reviews Jesse Malin‘s new album.
Robinson
The game begins. Robinson wrote this in collaboration with a Defoe of Stoke Newington, onetime brickseller and odd-job author: tales of fast women and roguish men, King-before-King horror stories about a plagues, storms and apparitions. Together, it appears, they cooked up this story of a virtuous island tenure. Easy to picture them in the upper room of a London inn — cheap candles, two chancers laughing at the absurdities to be thrown at the public.
Sean Walsh is fascinated by an enduring literary recurrence.