Mothers wouldn’t want their daughters within kissing distance of Naked (On Drugs) – and not because of that confidently controversial name of theirs – but because they want them for themselves: these two handsome devils, these two expert proponents of the art of seedy, channelling the sound of seed down from the ages, from potty couldn’t-give-a-fuckers like Sixteen Iggy and Wild in Blue Suicide, into the wank-stain present where shitheads rule, in vain unrest, entwined in blissful mediocrity, that’s what they’re up against, lead-singer/songwriter Sebastian Perrin and guitarist, Luke Byron Scott; two exiles on (Manchester) main street’s: Sebastian, having fled from the straightjacket-life of Lyon, and Luke having legged it from Milton Keynes (no explanation needed there)

But let me tell you straight: the mother’s want that voice of Sebastian all to themselves - that voice like the bastard son of David Bowie and Grace Jones – crooning in their mother ears, full of fuck, recalling youth and the first touch of love, speaking their name – speaking Jayne or Lisa and not Lee Ann (and who is Lee Ann – who are all these girls names in men’s songs – where do they all go to once the song’s are over? But they’re never over, they go on, like clocks in the rooms of the forgotten dead)

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And Luke stood there, all Milton Keynes Richards, all cigarette-thin and poised; their living, breathing skinny link to the past, to the way music once was, when small venues smelled of girls piss because they couldn’t hold it in after seeing Brian Jones, up there with his blonde fringe and black hooded eyes, painting their minds black. And though Luke’s guitar sounds like a drunken black-out, he’s no charlatan blues-man, no six-string cliche; there’s magic in those minimum-wage fingers of his, reality and sadness and hunger and anger and canals of 4 quid for 4 lager and the lost laughs of girls lost to sober steady-heads who bring out the best in the best in those who know the power of loserdom; he channels it all; the magic truth, the wallow of late-adolescence.

Listen to those aching squeels at 2.28 (and that could be 2.28am if you’ve got the guts to stay up with us that is), squeels like old computer games still loading up from the winter of ’88: the fucked-up Spectrum-effect; Sci-Fi fingers; and thunder sounds like a million crisp packets opened simultaneously; that’s Luke, that’s Lee Ann’s Skin. The B-Side as well – Araki Dinosaurs. Forget-it-not. Perfect length/Perfect Bowie-like-Low: 1 minute 20. If only the world lasted 1 minute 20, just enough time to brush the dandruff from each of our shoulders, just enough time to undress and get Naked (On Drugs).