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Primal Scream and George Clinton: You're My Best Mate You Are

Stuart Maconie, Q, May 1994

FORTY SECOND Street. Outside, Manhattan shivers and cowers beneath a coverlet of snow and prepares for the next much-forecasted blizzard. It's minus 10. Worse, there's what The Weather Channel delights in telling you is a "wind chill factor of 25". Put in understandable human terms, this means that, should you head straight from the shower to the street, your wet hair will have frozen into icy ropes before you've gone a block. Winos cluster around the steam vents and apprentice icebergs grind along the East River.

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