Cosey steps right out of the screen of a crackly old vhs to deliver her second release of heels and leather groovers, lifted straight from the sticky dancefloors of smoke stained clubs of the 1981 you wish you partied so hard in you forgot to remember. Driving, crunching and grinding through eight sassy tracks, the conveyor belt of analog tunes is constructed on a foundation of vintage synths and sequencers. Vocals, ice cold like a frozen strawberry daiquiri, guide you through the club to the jukebox next to the cigarette machine so you can pick out that track you like, the one with the spontaneous uplifting guitar hook that comes out of nowhere and kicks like that pill you forgot you took back in 1981. [Daryl Sulfate, Diät]
