Pinkie is the sound of angels letting pretty little farts in Cornish heaven. Pinkie is enraptured in a soft and silky love coma; it is clearly very quaint, and I am happy that is happening to them.
The music on Sharon Fussy isn’t so aweful if you are into jangly sappy songs that your great grandmother would give her full approval to. However, the vocals are a hideous, horrifying exaultation of adolecsent simplicity. There’s your problem.
It is actually impossible to describe how bad the lyrics to this are, so here’s a sampling of what’s happening right now: “And If the trees could weep a tear they weep them all right here as though we were here, right here…”
What?