It’s a raucous, shambolic, ranting wreck of a song, which ends with a well-oiled Leonard chanting.
Alan Attwood Sydney, February 1979 Melbourne, 1984 He was wearing a satin clown suit with big black pom-poms, and his schtick was well-rehearsed, but he was also engaging. I felt some sympathy for a singer who’d allowed himself to be pigeon-holed under ‘E’ for eccentrics. The room was strewn with sheet-music.
Alan Attwood Las Vegas; March 1996 The song played in my head when I ran at night along a dead straight road in the darkness of the Nevada desert, which was as real as Las Vegas was fake.