Neil Loots

I must say that, upon reflection after having listened to much of the A C oeuvre, I find the "happy-hippy-on-acid-and-pot", er, "vibe" of these folks a little too cloying for my tastes. It is impossible to remain THIS friggin' happy, even on copious amounts of pot. Have any of these people had a close friend, relative or pet die? Have they ever hated life, even for a moment? Or do they simply reject this other aspect of experience in favour of the protracted state of ecstacy in which they seem to exist? "A spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down" may be a useful idiom to know, but come on!?!?! They need to produce a few darker songs, grow up a little, come out of their drug-dazed never-never land, if only to counterbalance the manic happiness of their records. Then I'll decide whether I like them or not. (Which is not to say that they're untalented, of course, but merely that such unremitting cutesiness is a bit tough to take.)

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One morning, upon awakening from agitated dreams, Gregor Samsa found himself, in his bed, transformed into a monstrous vermin.