I suppose that the straights and the money men and the suits and the housewives all thought Julian Cope was going to go straight in 1988 and begin making the sort of music that would shift units and deliver widgets into the marketplace on a regular pace. In the minds of some of these people, an exceptionally long conveyor belt dumping wonderful products into their homes was the wave of the future. No more shopping--no more discerning looks at this item or that to see if it fits to suit or suits to fit--just dump into into the old chute and watch the bank account record the credit automatically.
It's a pity that Cope has disowned the album from which this single came. A bad Julian Cope album is head and shoulders above--and more well thought-out than--anything you'd get from that conveyor belt of consumer goods. My Nation Underground wasn't and certainly isn't bad. Copey didn't have enough songs to flesh it out properly. Imagine the album being set aside and crashed into the brilliance of what became Peggy Suicide. Imagine his Droolian and Skellington sets being combined with all herein and I think it would have been grand. As it is, I'll take his works and enjoy them as is. Critics be damned, they never understood Cope anyway.
This particular single is wonderful enough to merit inclusion and it regularly pops up in my song rotation. Perfectly executed and packaged in a 10-inch single--what's not to love?
The 10-inch single was always a treasure to locate and find. I loved picking them up whenever someone I liked put one out. Now I have to go scour the old collection and see which ones I still have.