Maybe it’s the relentless rhythm, the infinite weightiness of the low end, and that howling fuzz guitar; maybe it’s because it sounds like something that would have been played in a bleeding edge subterranean club in Sixties London, as if the Yardbirds just finished up their set at The Ricky Tick, and now Collins takes the stage; maybe it’s because it seems the perfect thing to play in some sweaty, darkened, off-the-radar basement hideaway where they’re slinging buckets of the hard stuff without a liquor licence, just the sort of imaginary place where the similarly grungy, dissolute masterpieces off Exile on Main Street always take you; or maybe it’s the way the whole meaning of the thing is wrapped up in that one frustrated, admiring line, and now you come along; plus there’s the way the vibraphone just fits moodily in the mix, you know, it’s just perfect (and played by former Sex Pistols drummer Paul Cook to boot); but whatever it is, I just love this one. Love love love it. It really gets the party started – it’s all let’s wrap up this frivolous turd-hunt and do something intense. Supposedly it’s a tribute to the style of Iggy Pop, and that hypnotic drum track is actually a sample, extracted from Len Barry’s 1965 hit 1-2-3, but I don’t care how derivative it is, it just grabs you by the cajones and commands you to get with the program. That or get the f*&% outta here, ‘cuz we don’t got time for this.
Take it from me, this one takes some careful song-matching, you have to think about what you’re doing if you want to put it on a mix-tape. Most pop tunes wither up and die from the proximity. You need Jumping Jack Flash, or the Velvets doing Rock and Roll, stuff that digs deep and takes no prisoners, and you wind up with something that sounds coiled up, ready to burst, and serious like a heart attack, which is not suitable for all occasions. Just what the doctor ordered, sometimes, yes?