Separating the sweet, juicy flesh from the stone and skin of this week’s major label releases.

You may have heard that Michael Jackson, King Of Pop and Prince Of Perverts, moonwalked off this mortal coil recently. Or you may not; for all we know, you could be a clam  surviving in a deep ocean vent on a diet of plankton and whale poop. But then you wouldn’t be reading this, unless there’s some seriously freaky evolution going on down there, away from the eyes of humanity.

This is getting confusing: Jacko’s dead, but the world is still producing music. It’s your mango!

We represent each release as a thought, as is customary. But this week, in honour of our soon-to-be bivalve masters, each thought is one which might be thinked by one of those clever little critters. Kicking things off (no offense intended, our legless overlords):

Firstly: Lungs, Florence And The Machine. First album from Florence Welsh and her backing band. And, Gods, it’s boring. Kind of Dido, kind of Everything But The Girl, kind of Avril Lavigne. If that list doesn’t put you off, then you should report to the nearest branch of Homebase, rent one of their chainsaws and cut your ears off at the neck, you awful plebsack. Best bit of the album? The bit in the single, Dog Days Are Over, when she uses the same little run of notes as in that song that Susan Boyle sings, and your brain is anticipating a dub of applause to cover the wobbly high note.

This album is represented by the molluscian thought:

“Wow. A hundred thousand years up there, taking them from drumming with rocks through to The Beatles, and this is progress? You have got to be kiddi…ooh, some shark shit.”

Secondly: The Duckworth Lewis Method, Duckworth Lewis Method. We hate cricket. We don’t understand it, it goes on for far too long and its fans are obsessive bores who can make grown men weep by spending literally fourteen hours repeating the same tired old story: “The batsman’s name was Holding, right? And the bowler’s called Willy. So the commentator goes, ‘The batsman’s Holding, the bowler’s Willy!’ He just said their names, but it makes it sound like…you know. Dya geddit? Do you? DO YOU?”

So, how can this terrible game be made even more soul-scouringly dreadful? Why, by inviting London butter-mountain and laughter-free shouty bloke Phil Jupitus to guest on a cricket concept album made by that nutsack from The Divine Comedy, of course.

The result is predictably horrific. Do not let people tell you that this is the sound of summer days spent lying in a field being fed strawberries by your girlfriend. It is not. It is the sound of a cold November evening when you’ve ducked into a pretentious jazz club to escape the rain, and your girlfriend is a hacksaw-voiced harridan with the sexual allure of a Kerry Katona statue sculpted from frozen sick.

The worst track on this album is Jiggery Pokery. And that’s an honour which is akin to being called ‘the most bigoted article in today’s Daily Mail‘; you’ve beaten some serious competition to get there. They probably thought that they were chanelling Noel Coward, but sadly, seem to have got a crossed connection and ended up with Richard Stilgoe.

If you want the world’s best song ever to reference cricket, please listen to Roy Harper’s awesome When An Old Cricketer Leaves The Crease. Don’t buy the album, though: get Valentine instead. You’ll love it, and that’s a Mango guarantee.

Avoid this album like you would a Frenchman. It is represented by the crustacean thought:

“What in Christing ballwanks is this? Please, put that Florence and The Machine CD back on. You’re first against the wall when we rise (literally. Ahaha.) to power.”

Thirdly: Story Of A Heart, Benny Andersson Band. If you want a real piece of perfect summer listening, then check out the former ABBA songmeister’s album. We never knew what Swedish folk music sounded like until hearing this (surprisingly like German drinking songs is the answer), but our hearts are now taken.

See you in the park on Friday afternoon. We’ll be the ones with a big, silly smile.

This album is represented by the razorlike thought:

“At last. Now this I can shake my valve to.”

There you go, good people. We’re now off to chuck all the clams out of our fridge and into the neighbour’s bin. Because they are coming.

We’ll see if we’ll see you next week.

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