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Impossibly hip rubberlegged glitter-garage punk from Paris that sounds like a singing, dancing street gang in leather jackets, glugging champagne in a graveyard. This is a collection of tight jams for dudes who shave with switchblades and the women who will bury them after their drunk motorcycle accidents. If you don’t get it, you ain’t got it.

Came from the sky like a 747. Classic Rock’s least-reputable byline-grabber since 2003. Several decades deep into the music industry. Got fired from an early incarnation of Anal C**t after one show. 30 years later, got fired from the New York Times after one week. Likes rock and hates everything else. Still believes in Zodiac Mindwarp and the Love Reaction, against all better judgment.