From the opening bars Ivy's fingers dance across the fretboard, the guitar cavorts and extends to her nimble digits, spitting out its melody. She strums the power chords in blocks of raw elemental fire. Stroking the rhythm out of the metal and wood she then entices a slow soft murmur of a beat. The devil is behind the bush, just move aside the tail and carefully enter. Eyes glistening, mouth salivating with fiery lips just waiting to be entertained and thrilled. When she lets you in, just remember she may never let you get out.
Lux luxuriates in double entendres creating the metaphysical caresses of a 20th C John Donne paying homage to the curvaceous shapes, wet pouting lips, lithe smooth thighs, DD cups and long shining (black, blonde, red, pink,) hair of women. There is so much to say, no wonder he has devoted his career to it.
Bad gals of all senses are paraded as icons of sobrierty in a mad, bad post fem Crampain world. They carry blades, swing axes, chew gum and pick their men. All this whilst dancing to the beat of their inner rhythms allowing men to watch to assist their pleasure.
Lux hiccups to a Charlie Feathers beat as theremins/early synth slide in and out as he describes his Andre Breton experience of a wet nightmare. The lyrics intone the primal goddess either as a gothic princess, the Queen of Pain, the Devil behind that Bush or Burn She Devil. The lustful zip monster comes alive in God monster and It thing hard on. The powerful lustful man come to drink his fill.
The point of it all you ask. There was a time before Europe was christianised, life was one big pagan festival. No one felt guilty for nakedness, drinking, fun, painting yourself up displaying allure or sexual activity. Work was for existence not as a means for existence.
Life was short but it was far far sweeter.