| Pop goes the Music |
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http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/entertainment/8041586.stm Ambly Bonkers has a new album out, Tuesday. Her brilliant piercings click a mean two-step as she raunches through gravel with the grace of many camels to produce singing the like of which mankind has never previously known. She's using her mouth on this album, 'Blow me what you owe me'. It's the definitive New Cardigan epistle to an uncaring world, much of it woolly and chemically induced. Track three contains an impression of a horse doing an impression of a kettle. Yes, we've all heard that done before in New Cardigan, but Ambly has introduced something of the desperate waif on steroids to this rendition and we think that says it all.
Ambly Bonkers first vomited onto the scene in her mother's slippers, carrying a bottle of stout and smelling a bit off. A role-model to millions of dusty-faced hoochie-coochie girls from Land's End to just outside Land's End, Ambly's unique slippers and body odour made her an instant star and, after five short years of binge-drinking and sleeping rough, she was big. Leaning Gallipoli of Osmosis described her as: 'Like, you know what I mean, like,' and gave us looks of macho incomprehension. If that wasn't blessing enough, retired Ronald McFester of the Ruling Stains used to give her a good chuffing back in the day. Her style is indefinable. Some say her stage presence reminds them of the first time they were cornered by vampire crabs in a bedsit; others liken her to a bizarre-Barbie fetish doll shimmering in a nightmare of jellied-screams. To her parents she will always be just plain Ambly, and to the paramedics at the private rehab prefab that follows her to gigs on a trailer, she will always be 'the pay-cheque in the wheelchair.' We asked some monkey-faced, shit-for-brains fans what they liked most about Ambly and they said it was the slurred speech. 'She's, like, you know, I don't know,' said one. 'Yeah, that's right,' agreed her mate. 'She's so, completely, you know, like, I don't know.' We pressed the point and asked if they thought Ambly, herself, knew. 'Well, that's deep, and, like, at the end of the day, we don't know, do we?' 'No, mate. We don't know and, like, you know, we don't know if Ambly knows, you know?' Was it the dribbly chin or the sequinned clothes that drew them, we wondered. 'The dribble's good, yeah, but then again, like you know, she does wear more sequins than anyone, you know?' 'Yeah, she's not all just sequins though. You can't, like, ignore all that dribble, can you? I mean, like, if you was in the first row and she was standing over you, like, dribbling in your face, and that. After an hour you'd be, like, soaking wet.'
We asked her pimply boyfriend, Nose Powder McGallon, if he ever thought they'd get back together and he reckoned, no, she was naturally bow-legged. Following her death in a car-crash in 2008 and her later deaths in early 2009 from substance abuse and blood-loss following a knitting-pattern gash, many said Ambly would never again stun millions with her clicking and gargling. Many mourned the loss of her genius, her charismatic shrugs, fishnet face, and total disregard for personal hygiene. It was only after the sequel to 'Biscuit Crack' - the cryptically entitled masterpiece, 'What if I got me tits out but nobody came?' - that confidence among her fans was finally restored and an orgy of violence ensued. Millions lay battered and bruised by surly girlies who roamed the streets giving it some of that. Society had been transformed from a state of innocent and articulate pleasantness to a sordid hotbed of infamy in which even the nuns smoked crack. When the history books are written and our lives long-since ended, people will read about Ambly and compare her to the Industrial Revolution or the canal system. Who are we to argue with history? We're just slaves to the beat and - like Ambly herself - long may it keep on banging. 'Blow me what you owe me'. Ambly gives
it the full scrot! |
