If pop was always this obscene and this beautiful, a discovery that only you've made crawling into the myriad sounds conjured up by the machines, selling your soul to the statuesque alabaster carved of English and German uniting in the hands of megalomania of sound... power force motion drive propels its forward on wings of fairlight constructions, is it a sense of humour or wilful perversity that drops a jazz solo for goodness sake into this teutonic wilderness, lives and loves are lost in the blink of an eye, you murdered love 'I was the witness but now I'm the judge... I am the judge! And I judge this to be more than a guilty pleasure, dripping in the decadence of the 80s mania for pop - dance away the shoulder pads and celebrate the melancholy redolent under mascara tinged skies. Sorry for laughing but how can you turn a hyper-mania indie dirge legend to a synth drenched industrial pop dirge only a genius would even have the lunacy to attempt it but to pull it off... there is magic here in spades, the most unlikely spaces thrill with glitter; Jewel the sound of cheese graters if they could sing, its counterpart Duel so ludicrously conventional you have to wonder... 'Frozen faces can always melt' so throw away those assumptions now! Its sooooo 80s but can you forgive just a teeny bit for the marvellous pomposity of it all, feel the drama as everything AND the kitchen sink is flung in (somewhere even synth pop supremo David Sylvian lurks before he turned his back on artifice and reclaimed his soul). Selling my soul, selling my soul, never look back (goodbye the modern age with your dreary copyists)... it has the super shiny sheen of gloss Trevor Horn's sticky fingers by association even if he was too taken by the sleaze of Frankie and the hyperbole of Morley taints it still but a synth pop treat best consumed vociferously.