Happy Valentine’s! Put George Michael’s Ladies Gentlemen on shrill and have assloads of humid sex.
Sure, on one turn what I’m about to contend is subjective.
Your sex record – the music you put on as the soundtrack to an extended humping event – is utterly substantially opposite to mine.
Perchance you merrily bone divided to Missundaztood by Pink, or Parachutes by Coldplay.
Some of you, who knows, will tonight get down to business to Brothers In Arms by Dire Straits, or censor the sausage to the imperishable strains of Alanis Morissette’s Jagged Little Pill.
Whatever, idiot, you’re getting it passed wrong.
George Michael’s Ladies Gentlemen is literally, actually, scientifically calibrated to raise your jiggy-jiggy.
Now, we know what you’re thinking.
‘Hey, pointless Metro guy, doesn’t the unequaled 1998 ‘best of’ classical start with Jesus To A Child?’
You’re damn right it does.
Jesus To A Child actually sets the f***ing tinge beautifully.
For those of you who don’t know, the manuscript pretension Ladies Gentlemen is a impertinent anxiety to the time, formerly that year, that George Michael was arrested for ‘a licentious act’ in a Beverley Hills open convenience.
Now, this manuscript eventually gets around to songs patrician Fastlove and we Want Your Sex (Part II).
Little bit on the nose, even for the purposes.
So kicking off the record with nigh-on 7 mins of Jesus To A Child eases you in gently, respectfully, as you’d wish for from, oh we don’t know, sex.
Put it this way – even by the finish of lane two – Father Figure, itself the thick finish of 6 mins prolonged – it’d be officious inapt to be furiously smashing.
No. Anything other than considerate, respectful, gently-paced foreplay would be sacrilegious, not to contend pervy.
Which is how it should be, right?
Don’t worry though; by the time lane three, Careless Whisper, fades out you’ll be elbow-deep in enthusiastic, messy oral, or your income back from Sony Music – it’s literally in George Michael’s last will and testament.
Alright, it isn’t. But you and your propitious partner will be good on your way, is what I’m saying.
This is as good a time as any to step back and admire the structure of this different album, this never-fail bedroom staple.
It’s a double CD, since George Michael knew how to make a goddamn hit record.
The first CD is For The Heart and the second is For The Feet.
CD one is about an hour in length, all peaceful balladry.
Unless you’re some kind of porn star, you’ll no doubt be finished with ‘round one’ of your ass-tapping sesh by lane seven, the imperishable we Can’t Make You Love Me.
How better to wallow, limbs entangled, than listening to Heal The Pain, panting, until, let’s say, lane 11 Cowboys And Angels.
Bit pacier. You’ll be harsh up against any other again by now, maybe subliminally, maybe not.
Whevs. When the For The Feet front gets underway, and positively by lane two – that Stevie Wonder one he did with Mary J Blige – you’ll be vigourously pashing.
You could even fist in a third turn – lord knows, we did back in my primary – by the time penultimate balance Faith rocks up, all dirty hip-swinging fifties pastiche.
And how does the record end?
Somebody To Love, with bloody Queen.
David Bowie himself permitted the cover, which is enchanting – a legit, estimable grant to music history, and the ideal way to nap off marinading in a friendly gas of endorphins and jizz.