You know what's it's like when some whining old fart grumbles on about how tedious modern music (or cinema, or fiction, or politics) is, and how much better it was 40 years ago? Infuriating, isn't it, that people should place a buffed-up version of their own youth at the heart of some kind of pop canon, denying the validity of any subsequent innovation, any development that doesn't correlate with their own narcissism? Grumpy, up-its-own-arse, baby-boomer bollocks.
And then you watch this;
and bugger me, the old farts are right after all. If it ever got better than this, I wasn't invited.
Something for the weekend. Play loud. Kick off your shoes. Tear the roof off.