The Jesus And Mary Chain
Automatic

THE REVIEW

September 1989: Automatic. Please turn on the stereo...

The Reid brothers don their most rock'n'roll attire with a rebellious boldness that captures eyes and ears, unleashing and dripping from those latent and sickly guitars 12 tracks that reek of debris, disobedience, and freshly lit cigarettes...

I watch the last 30 seconds in the mirror, smile at myself, then grab the keys, I'm down in 5 seconds. Waking up was tough. In the earliest memories, 'Half Way To Crazy' with its brazenly cloying and beautiful chant buzzing in my ears and 'Drop' illuminating an endless dawn. This car still smells of smoke and party. Turn the key, and 'Automatic' by the Jesus And Mary Chain starts again. Last night, this concentrated dose of rock'n'roll, scratches, sex, and abrasions kept us company for a long time. I remember myself with 'Between Planets' with its grudgingly bubblegum rhythm, those crushing electric spanks, that bitter taste on the lips and the glass in hand smiling at it... I didn't even know who they were.

I was just looking at her shoulders and her eyes while Jim and William with their rough voices and those sticky, sick words unconsciously brought us closer. Perhaps I had drunk too much, but I felt that damn irresistible drum pounding inside my chest in 'Head On'. It was already in my head. Another look, another smile, and it was done, I would find myself dancing with him this other beautiful decadent bad copy of 'April Skies'... I always say it's the fault of the drum skins if I get that sudden emptiness in my stomach... Then comes 'Take It', bothersome and suffocating, with that pasty and murky proceeding. The air in the place is hot and stale, making you want to take it out on these damned Scots and their 'Automatic' if you feel so dazedly fine tonight.

They don't give you time to catch your breath with those sticky riffs, those viscous melodies, and those damnably seditious tones. Another one of these, and I swear, I won't drink anymore. He's always there looking at me, and we look at each other and don't stop. Through the anthracite smoke blanket drawing in front of us, I don't know what hidden calls 'Blues From A Gun' starts, worn and frayed with its feverishly danceable sound, and we don't detach anymore. Stuck in each other, glued to one another. Only his words thundering in our heads, dragged and tense like our hands. Then the rusty rock of 'UV Ray' with its transversal electronic incursions and of 'Gimme Hell', like sandpaper on skin, of 'Her Way Of Praying', dark and overpowering in its simplicity and then again those choruses... those words that seem like blades in the flesh, cut tongues, lost souls.

We exit that filthy hole dazed on the feverish and muddy notes of 'Here Comes Alice'... 'You got the shakes and it's gonna get worse, don't you know it's all a part of the curse'... maybe it really is a curse but now does it matter? With that smile, where did he want to escape tonight? Foot on the accelerator and yet another cigarette between the lips... 'On the road, under the sky' sang the Reid brothers. This dirty and sick city of this album we leave behind us, what do you say, eh, honey?? Ahead of us only the deserted road, dusty but dazzling with dilapidated neon signs. What more could one need when you know those eyes are fixed on you? Maybe 'Coast To Coast' blasting on the stereo or burning in the stomach; urban, drugged, humid like a reckless one-way drive... slicing through the soul of this unexpectedly crazy night... of this city that smells of earth and debris.