The first Julian Cope album I ever owned, bought on the eve of Winter Solstice, 2000 — inevitably it was a fiver from Fopp. It could well have been the last one, as well, were it not for the autobiography
, which I keep on going on about. As someone who hates autobiographies, I loved it (curiously, the other exception to my autobiography rule is Cope's bugbear, Bill Drummond). Seriously, read it.
After I got the album, I abridged the collection even further by recording about half the 15 tracks onto mini-disc, and that disc became my introduction to the Introduction, the greatest of the Greatest Hits. Yet even that failed to convince. Listening again to the full album, I can hear where my early selection was trite and obvious — though the less obvious half doesn't change my feeling of not quite living up to the expectations that trail in the wake of the rhetoric.
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