Drop the needle anywhere on Motorheart and be instantly transported from this moaning and weeping vale of tears to Elysian fields of rock where all hands are raised, the drinks just as in the Club Tropicana of yore are free, and everyone wears a pleasingly salacious grin. Does it rock Is the sun hot Has your partners touch grown cold The Darkness are the Orwellian boot stamping on the flaccid face of limp rock, forever
