The first half's an art-punk classic, Lunch's controlling/helpless sexpot strutting is perfectly matched by her band: a frenzied, beat-damaged big-band hellgasm. Lounge jazz from the 2nd circle. Horns and guitars lick and lurch behind sensual noir phantasmagorias.
But, out of energy or ideas, the band nearly disappears in the second half, leaving simmering go-nowhere minimalism. There's not enough atmosphere in the vocals alone to carry it, it's all night and no knives. Still, that first half's unmissable 4/5
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