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The Press Article
A scary rock'n'roll wolfchild who roams the streets, high on drugs and booze, in search of whatever cheap thrills the night has to offer. And that's only DAVID BENNUN. No wonder he likes Supergrass
Supergrass
I Should Coco
Parlophone 833350
SHOULD have done it by now, y'know, but it was such a lovely day that it seemed a shame to light the burner under my steam-powered Amstrad and sit indoors. I thought, I know, I'll do a living review. I'll act out the album. So, in the spirit of "Alright", that delicious, jaunty paean to innocent hedonism, I went for a walk, saw my friends, saw the sights, felt all right. Brighton's so pretty in the sunshine. We got agreeably drunk. I rolled one of my notorious footlongs. (I take drugs, me, even after watching the "Panorama" on how, contrary to popular belief, marijuana will render you instantly and severely dead should you so much as pass a hippy on the sidewalk.) Felt it best not to get caught by the fuzz, man, so took the tenner in my pocket and went for a bargain Italian meal-Donatello's, can't recommend it enough - with a charming and attractive young lady. Sorry, suppose that should be "foxy chick". We went dutch. (Not, for the inexperienced among you, a sexual variation, but a method of payment.) Then we went Dutch. (Ah, you figure it out.)
Oh, to be into Supergrass now that spring is here. Can't remember when I last felt this good about life. Can't remember when I last felt so young. Can't remember where I was last Tuesday night. Everyday pleasures really are the best. That's a lie, of course, but a beautiful and practical one. More of an act of faith. Supergrass make it all sound so harmless. Sex'n'drugs'n'rock'n'roll are the stuff of "I Should Coco", which celebrates them with a happy shrug. Debauchery is fun, and fun is good for you, and there is no moral distinction between picnicking in the park, skinning up on the bus, and sleeping around if you feel like it. Even though it's hard to imagine them taking part in any sport more strenuous than strip poker, Supergrass ought to be sponsored by Nike - "Just Do It".
Then I thought. I really should listen to some good music. And - how appropriate - the album's still in the CD player. Heck, bung it on and call it working. So there I sat, grinning like a kid in kid heaven, while "I'd Like To Know" punked and jumped and X-Ray-Spexed its way past in a blur (so to speak), and "Mansize Rooster" did its Chanticleer strut, and "Strange Ones" followed "I'd Like To Know" into some Oxford weirdo basement club. Before I knew it, "Time To Go" was fetchingly signing off, and I'd hardly made any inroad at all into "Bunny: The Real Story of Playboy" (and much as I hate to brag, I'm a pretty fast reader). I love the way everything on "Coco" happens so quickly. By the time you realise how much fun you're having, you're having some other kind of fun.
So I opened the window to let in the air and the traffic noise and to watch the sun glittering off the pools of mercury some fool had left on the footpath. Then I called up the fire brigade to come clean it up, and put the album on again. Marvelled at how well "Caught By The Fuzz" captured the heartsinking, my life-is-over terror of teenage trouble. Recalled the pogoing, punk nostalgia afternoons my older acquaintances like to indulge in, particularly the time two of them fell through that glass-topped coffee table, and mused on how much more I was enjoying "Coco" than any of their creakily revered records. I nodded my head to the spunky loathing of "Lenny" and swayed from side to side as "She's So Loose" strummed and buzzed and generally came on all louche. I giggled at the helium frequencies of "We're Not Supposed To" and its finger-wagging list of rules made to be broken. I let "Time" swaddle me in a haze of sprightly kiddiedelia.
I was busy getting in touch with the couch-in-space ebb and flow of "Sofa (Of My Lethargy)" in both literal and spiritual fashion when an irate albums editor left a well uncool and mood-wrecking message on my answerphone, viz: "Where's my Supergrass review, you bastard?" I thought he'd understand my living review concept, but no, he had to get all heavy about deadlines and putting a paper out, oldster stuff like that. So, sighing, I filled the boiler, lit the wick, and began to type.
Still, f*** it. Today was a good day.
© David Bennun
Taken from: Melody Maker - 13 May 1995
Supergrass
I Should Coco
Parlophone 833350
SHOULD have done it by now, y'know, but it was such a lovely day that it seemed a shame to light the burner under my steam-powered Amstrad and sit indoors. I thought, I know, I'll do a living review. I'll act out the album. So, in the spirit of "Alright", that delicious, jaunty paean to innocent hedonism, I went for a walk, saw my friends, saw the sights, felt all right. Brighton's so pretty in the sunshine. We got agreeably drunk. I rolled one of my notorious footlongs. (I take drugs, me, even after watching the "Panorama" on how, contrary to popular belief, marijuana will render you instantly and severely dead should you so much as pass a hippy on the sidewalk.) Felt it best not to get caught by the fuzz, man, so took the tenner in my pocket and went for a bargain Italian meal-Donatello's, can't recommend it enough - with a charming and attractive young lady. Sorry, suppose that should be "foxy chick". We went dutch. (Not, for the inexperienced among you, a sexual variation, but a method of payment.) Then we went Dutch. (Ah, you figure it out.)
Oh, to be into Supergrass now that spring is here. Can't remember when I last felt this good about life. Can't remember when I last felt so young. Can't remember where I was last Tuesday night. Everyday pleasures really are the best. That's a lie, of course, but a beautiful and practical one. More of an act of faith. Supergrass make it all sound so harmless. Sex'n'drugs'n'rock'n'roll are the stuff of "I Should Coco", which celebrates them with a happy shrug. Debauchery is fun, and fun is good for you, and there is no moral distinction between picnicking in the park, skinning up on the bus, and sleeping around if you feel like it. Even though it's hard to imagine them taking part in any sport more strenuous than strip poker, Supergrass ought to be sponsored by Nike - "Just Do It".
Then I thought. I really should listen to some good music. And - how appropriate - the album's still in the CD player. Heck, bung it on and call it working. So there I sat, grinning like a kid in kid heaven, while "I'd Like To Know" punked and jumped and X-Ray-Spexed its way past in a blur (so to speak), and "Mansize Rooster" did its Chanticleer strut, and "Strange Ones" followed "I'd Like To Know" into some Oxford weirdo basement club. Before I knew it, "Time To Go" was fetchingly signing off, and I'd hardly made any inroad at all into "Bunny: The Real Story of Playboy" (and much as I hate to brag, I'm a pretty fast reader). I love the way everything on "Coco" happens so quickly. By the time you realise how much fun you're having, you're having some other kind of fun.
So I opened the window to let in the air and the traffic noise and to watch the sun glittering off the pools of mercury some fool had left on the footpath. Then I called up the fire brigade to come clean it up, and put the album on again. Marvelled at how well "Caught By The Fuzz" captured the heartsinking, my life-is-over terror of teenage trouble. Recalled the pogoing, punk nostalgia afternoons my older acquaintances like to indulge in, particularly the time two of them fell through that glass-topped coffee table, and mused on how much more I was enjoying "Coco" than any of their creakily revered records. I nodded my head to the spunky loathing of "Lenny" and swayed from side to side as "She's So Loose" strummed and buzzed and generally came on all louche. I giggled at the helium frequencies of "We're Not Supposed To" and its finger-wagging list of rules made to be broken. I let "Time" swaddle me in a haze of sprightly kiddiedelia.
I was busy getting in touch with the couch-in-space ebb and flow of "Sofa (Of My Lethargy)" in both literal and spiritual fashion when an irate albums editor left a well uncool and mood-wrecking message on my answerphone, viz: "Where's my Supergrass review, you bastard?" I thought he'd understand my living review concept, but no, he had to get all heavy about deadlines and putting a paper out, oldster stuff like that. So, sighing, I filled the boiler, lit the wick, and began to type.
Still, f*** it. Today was a good day.
© David Bennun
Taken from: Melody Maker - 13 May 1995