If I’d just nailed the lyrics of The Future to a church door in Wittenberg, it would be a heavy and foreboding and sinister document – but it’s married to a hot little dance track. So the music dissolves in the lyric and the lyric dissolves in the music, and you’re left with a kind of refreshment, a kind of oxygen.
From Melancholy Baby by John Walsh. The Independent Magazine: May 8, 1993. Originally posted Jan 11, 2014 at DrHGuy.com, a predecessor of Cohencentric