The feeling’s mutual, Martin old son, despite quite liking your primitive raunchy rock sound with the onstage band ranged down one side of the stage.
Creed uses five girl ballet dancers from Sadler’s Wells to come and go in the five basic positions while he composes songs, literally, from A-Z and 1-100.
It’s like a child’s version of the avant-garde fifty years too late. On a white screen, he shows us his own penis rising and falling (cheers, mate).
Then a girl comes on film (sic) and vomits copiously. Another squats in profile and defecates. I don’t really mind this as much as I mind the twee, faux-naivete with which it’s presented. The whole thing stinks.