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Hole have sounded angrier, rawer and more vital than they do on 1998’s Celebrity Skin, and they’ve made albums both more incendiary and more important. But there’s something about its sleek shininess that feels magnificently defiant, like someone raising a middle finger clad in swanky velvet gloves. For years, dullards had insisted Love was a fame-chasing phoney. Why bother proving them wrong when you could have so much more fun seemingly proving them right? Celebrity Skin is so unashamedly populist it feels like an act of gleeful provocation. It’s selling out and sacrilege as insurrection. It’s the band who released ‘Retard Girl’ and ‘Teenage Whore’ making an album dominated by what Love called the “internal AM pop radio in my heart”. It’s mainstream gloss weaponised into one glorious fuck-you. When Melody Maker’s Everett True told Love of his dislike for the album’s smooth AOR influences, Love was unrepentant. “I’m not going to be held back by bad punk training,” she insisted.
read Ben Hewitt's full review at The Quietus

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