KATE Nash's breakthrough tunes could strike down a baboon on steroids.
They built a relatable, outspoken platform on an army of empty lager bottles and smeared lipstick cases.
This work was admired by teens trying to forge a future in the pollution swamps of our capital city.
Where did that sharp steel and bulky quip catalogue go?
What happened to the feisty melodies that shone a torch through Lily Allen's dark shadow?
Cherry Pickin begins by creating a cloud of toxic smog strong enough to land Robo Cop in A&E.
Although Death Proof partially fumigates this smoky dullness, it reeks of sheepish fence-sitting tailored to rush-hour radio.
Mouthwash strives to inject some bullish potency, but the yelling induces raw, throbbing headaches.
Dropping a kettle of walnuts on my toe would be a less harrowing experience.
Kate swears more than a trucker called in on Christmas Day, but she's letting her messy music cause the offence this evening.
Faith looks more out of place during Episode than a health spa situated on the Gaza Strip – trying hard to create an emotional attachment which stands proudly against surges of dreadful bedlam.
Dog's dinner or meal fit for a king? The fatal former, I'm afraid.
Kate's worst decision was to include Part Heart – poor judgment which eclipses an inane surrogate mother advertising herself as "a wolf-wombed baby thrower."
The set is more desperate than bigwig bosses tiring their minions with canteen small talk.
