WHAT have they become? Middle aged, but Paul Heaton has relocated his mojo by re-uniting with Jacqui Abbott , the most natural yin to his yang in his Beautiful South days.
Ugly thoughts, pretty soul and country tunes were their trademark, and the bitching is back in Heaton’s sharpest barbs in years. Re-enter Abbott and the bar is raised as Heaton’s political fury is reignited and his cussed humour rediscovers its lemon zest.
The album title is addressing the rotten state of the nation, as is When I Get Back To Blighty, but he knows he’ll never get the old Blighty back, the sadness enhanced by Abbott’s vocals. The United States’ dumb-ass culture takes a waspish bashing too, but Heaton writes tenderly of frustrated women with an insight and understanding more associated with Alan Ayckbourn’s plays.
He breaks new ground too in the quietly threatening, contemptuous list song I Am Not A Muse, its poison working like a snake bite. What have Heaton and Abbott become? Vital again.
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