The Black Hollies take the past so seriously it's hard to believe they exist in the present at all. The band is caught somewhere where it's perpetually 1967, The Marquee is still serving up maximum R-and-B, and scooters choke the streets and cause road hazards as forests of mirrors sprout out from the body of each bike. Sitars still count as "rawk" and even the most die-hard pill head isn't afraid of breaking into an occasional skiffle beat, hackneyed though it may sound.
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