You won’t have read about these artists on Pitchfork as literally none of them are po-faced sods wailing a-tonally about their ex-girlfriends or rappers from the mean streets that apologetic members of the upper-middle class can like, totally relate to. In my perfect world, instead of the wife beaters and meth whores we are currently worship, these ladies would be in the charts forever and I wouldn’t want to pull out the car radio with my bare hands once a week. Because in my perfect world that fucking anathema Glamorous wouldn’t even exist. Good, eh?
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