Guilty pleasures are for chumps. Why should you feel guilt because something gives you pleasure? Why would you cringe in embarrassment when one of your shithead buddies is thumbing through your collection and finds that Rita Coolidge or House of Pain album amongst the rare Corrupted and Paysage d' Hiver vinyls? I like Duran Duran, well the first three albums anyways. I like their uber-slick cocaine-on-a-yacht pop music, I like how they embody everything cum-soaked and greedy about the '80s. I like their hair, I like their white shirts. If you are my age and male you hated Duran Duran when this album came out. You hated them because every teenage girl in America wanted to be fingerbanged by Simon LeBon and John Taylor, and not you. The very existence of Duran Duran was a giant fingerblock. But listen now, plunge into the hymen tight rhythm section of the Taylor tots. Get the cosmetic keys (to my creations and times) of a haircut named Nick Rhodes all over your face. Snort a huge line of cheap, glassy guitars. Swallow up the loveless, semen-smooth vocals of a douchey dandy named Simon. Ahhhh, now you get it. This album is more evil than Beherit, darker than Bonnie Prince Billy, more lonely and crestfallen than a hundred funeral doom albums. It's the sound of the air conditioned plastic emptiness of the nineteen-eighties. It's blood flecks on an Armani handkerchief, it's the arrival of AIDS, it's the constant fear of Mutually Assured Destruction, it's anonymous sex, it's Patrick Bateman, it's cold legs in a cold city, it's whore's sweat, it's death. It's a whispered lie from the urethra of oblivion. And now I have spooked myself.