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(which reigns for so many reasons, from top to bottom: thrumming bass with hoofbeats-and-hunting-horn at the intro, and then those big bonecracking drum fills, the guitar riff so crude and simplistic it's practically barbaric, Eddie Tudor-Pole's louche sneer on the verses exploding into the monster football-chant chorus, the self-conscious, triumphal silliness of it all, the solo's raucous fizz tripwires into the tape-reversed piano chord that ushers in the final verse, and you realize for a second what a well-produced and cleverly-arranged bit of songcraft this is, and also that its careening energy is such that you never notice the toolset that's in play, only feel the effect as you grin wide despite yourself and try to keep yourself from singing along, and fail, gloriously, shamelessly, and you klnow your throat will be sore in the morning but you don't care and then there's no more need for words as drums stop on a dime and then all is hoo rah hoo rah hoo rah yea, hoo rah hoo rah hoo rah ye-e-e-eah) |
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