Prattlestar Galactica

Veering sharply from the sublime to the frankly absurd for today’s entry, after some contemplation I’ve finally decided to give an inch or seven of crawlspace to one of the best worst excuses for a pop combo you’ve never heard of – Galactic Symposium.

Formed ‘by mistake’ as a 1979 press release would have it, this brace of musically gifted Nottingham oiks delighted in dismantling popular songs of the day so that they ended up sounding as though they were rendered by a crowd of drunken four-year-olds. And I say ‘musically gifted’ because each member was gifted at playing an instrument… just not the one he’d been assigned in the group.

It’s hard to say whether the Galactics’ lolloping version of Pink Floyd’s Money is even a legitimate entry into the spiky dread pantheon, mainly because its arrhythmic skank could just as easily be down to the drummer only being able to play one or two patterns and the guitarist not knowing when to come in, but I like to think that the result is at least half-deliberate.

Hapless reggae-tinged accident or crafty Dadaist prank, Money is guaranteed to have you dissolving into jittery giggles along with GS’s vocalist by the end of the record, though possibly not racing to the internet to find the whole album’s worth of their material which surfaced a few years ago like a kraken from the deep.

It’s out there. Somewhere…

(Dread Zed)

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