Despite the cold hard fact that with 'Strip' the much derided Mr Ant has made one of the great pop albums, it's a staggering fact that he is still disregarded as novelty; still associated with quirk and bugs.
This is partly self-inflicted; the fully-fledged Ant-psyche took a while to emerge, and the lactic gimmickry he employed to get him noticed, then stuck to him like cancer. Some of his early followers weren't happy with the progression, while others considered that the brazen foppishness was masculinity threatening. Whatever the reason, Mr Ant's credibility nose-dived faster than his nose dived; just the circumstance for true talent to re-invent itself and come firing back on all cylinders.
'Strip' is a significant, mature improvement on the excellent 'Friend or Foe.' Lush, adult pop with friction. Ant's gone from self-analysis Captain Morgan to push-the-envelope Casanova in one fell swoop. He's OBSESSED with rumpy on 'Strip.' Not one sweet, ravishing shanty goes by without twinkling Ant chancing his arm with a floozy. Kind of Jacques Brel doing 'Come On Eileen' or, even better, a risqué, lewd 'Rumours' (The similarities with the latter - both structurally and melodically - are firmly undeniable).
He's cowing and fawning for all he's worth; wooing and enticing with his unique brand of thrusting-limbed breathlessness.
The title track, for example, instructs us in no uncertain terms that sensual people have been 'doing it' tumbling down the centuries - and that is the only reason we need to be doing it right now ! At one stage, he describes himself as "an octopus with big X-Ray eyes..," revealing the true spirit and directives of 'Strip': making lasciviousness and sexual predation unashamed and attractive.
Other songs ram his point to the hilt: 'Playboy' and the subsequent 'Montreal' are 'Strip's climactic core. Melodic to the point of making you faint, and lyrically vigorous: '"What d'you like to hold?" -- "My breath" she said.' and even: 'Beautiful, his Bardot. Though he's spoiled, she likes him so.' With Marco Pirroni in playful production mood, Ant is simply set free to roll up his puff-sleeves, strap on a mouse mask, and INDULGE.
Of course, with his disgusting handsomeness and cheeky line in chat, Ant is a complete expert on women's bits and bobs. Smoother than praline, and with more hooks than a Japanese whaler, the fairer sex are helpless at his feet. 'Strip' is partly a celebration of that, and partly of what can be achieved when everyone else thinks you've gone down the hole for the final time.
'Strip' is fabulous entertainment; the orchestral arrangements are inspiring, the playfulness is refreshing, the lack of po-faced 80's pretension is glorious. In fact, it has great slabs of Carry-On style humour running through it, almost as ballast, opposite Ant's cocky dissolution, and his obvious acute reverence for both (Henry) Fielding's 'Lock Up Your Daughters' and Rinse Dream's 'Cafe Flesh.'