From a vast melting pot, its intensity so bewildering Fritz Lang may just be forced to gasp, a proud nightingale tired of the “Oh she’s Stevie Wonder’s lyricist isn’t she?” rhetoric rises, arms thurst wide, eyes glowing, messianic to the frickin’ hilt. This sleek slender Sappho like spectre hovers above sardine tin Northern Soul dancefloors, approving with her feline stare, she brings oxygen where life couldn’t possibly exist, while a voodoo tranced DJ gives an officer’s salute as he rocks in the swirling grooves, a Spanish galleon taming a perfect storm. Syreeta Wright observes her mission as completed. She returns with a heavy heart to the unpredictable netherworld, a genie at the beckon call of sloth like sample merchants or Eric Clapton assuming he has resurrected his R’n’B spirit which he sold to the M.O.R. devils in 1977. 

Ladies and gentlemen. Is this the way things must remain for Syreeta Wright? Merely a ghost trapped in the machine, a bricolage pattern for hustlers in Nehru coats who send their hounds out on tightropes to rape and pillage the reified grace she and her moonlit foot soldiers wreap in side street basement vinyl emporiums? To put it simply, before the Black Eyed Peabrains go on another skullfucking spree, before the Pussycat Dolls reusme their contract with Burke and Hare, please understand that it is the moral duty of all to liberate Syreeta and her R’n’B meets dirty funk kissed with sunshine pop masterpiece on her own terms. Spend one night in her company, preferably after digging through the vaults of a creepy second hand vinyl store. Understand what culture is about, pastiche and proliferation anger the gods of Motown, do not spit on their righteous path, the warning is clear, their angel is about to be subsumed by MTV bling. The battle starts here…