Toploader went the whole soft-rock hog: they recorded in Los Angeles, guitars surge to laborious climaxes, singer Joe Washbourn drifts from a Meat Loaf bellow to a cannabis-frayed drawl, and the drums go chugga-chugga-bomp.
The success of arse-rock godfathers Toploader bears tragic testament to the Herculean appeal of Blokedom, their every dusty wheeze embodying the belief that the key to rock divinity lies in the throaty rasp and the worn moccasin.