'Seven Songs' is quite reasonably afforded legendary status: massively influential and still frighteningly original to this day.
Unfortunately, that means pseudo-intellectual middle-class so-and-so's wearing long coats in summer; silly little beards and a deep and resolute knowledge of anything and everything in the universe - have taken them to their bosom
Irrelevant.
'Seven Songs' has tumbled down the years since its release, covering itself in more and more glory.
23 Skidoo get (unfairly) lumped in with the likes of Genesis P. Orridge and Stevo, replete with their leatherette's and Thrashing Muses and 'SS' is the kind of album dull people claim to like because it makes them appear more interesting than they really are; even though they don't understand a note and switch it off as soon as their friend has gone home.
You get the feeling 23 Skidoo are playing this deep, midnight disco music in a cave in Ilfracombe. Thrusting and screeching, but crucially, laughing their balls off the moment the pseuds backs are turned, to giggle like school-kids at the high-brow lunacy of it all.
This stuff sounds so bleakly experimental and sincere; you can't expect for a second, the people who made it to be serious: 'Porno Base' sounds like comic dash at a swish factory, while the storming, incessant 'Kundalini' carries genuinely amusing hostility.
The proclamation is funny: there AREN'T any songs, just tight, driving instrumentals and (OF COURSE !) there's just the 8 of them.