Anyone who's known me for some time has probably heard my "why rabbits* are the ultimate embodiment of evil" theory**. They've probably also noted my deep and abiding (and to some, inexplicable) love of Moloko, a band whose music has always instantly filled me with idiot glee and the urge to dance like a tit because they manage to be funky as fuck, poppy as all hell*** and deeply odd all at the same damn time, which is not an easy trick to pull off. And, of course, the incomparable Róisín Murphy§ was one half of 'em, and I fucking love Róisín Murphy. Not just because of that smoky voice which does things to me I'm not going to discuss in a public place, or that uncanny elastic phrasing of hers, the way she can twist and wrap a vocal line around a skewed rhythm section in a manner which is somehow percussive and slinky at the same time, but also for her utterly batshit lyrics, which I've only just realised, 17 years after the fact, are responsible for the aforementioned evil rabbit theory§§. And this, Killa Bunnies, is the song solely responsible:
*As in rodents.
**When my brain is idling, especially if I'm off my face, I've always enjoyed thinking a ludicrous idea right through to it's ultimate conclusion, just for shits 'n' giggles. I once came up with an entire religion based on analogue synthesizers and kittens purely because I was a bit bored and very, very stoned.
***And given that poppiness isn't really a trait I look for in music, or even respond to very often, the fact that Moloko did pop so fucking well that I love 'em all the more for it is a high and very rare compliment. Their first two LPs, Do You Like My Tight Sweater? and I Am Not A Doctor are just fucking wonderful and I won't have a word said against 'em.
§In the pub a few days ago, someone asked me which singer I would most want to collaborate should such a ludicrous possibility arise. Well, here's yr answer.
§§They don't make any fucking noise. I don't trust an animal that doesn't make a fucking sound unless you sit on it, especially when there's billions of the buggers running around under our feet in their hollowed out catacombs, they've got some sort of fluffy bastard hive-mind going and they're just biding their time...