The deranged, alchohol-tinged delievery sets this tirelessly appealing singer's priorities wisely (rhyming the title lyric with the scream "don't leave your traces in my sink!") and so casually sings a fury-tale of post-calculated-one-night-stand conduct. She engages with her subject matter and suitor so blithely it is a feeling of shameless rapture. Intelligent wit wildly sets her apart, saying something for sexual consumption, that a mink is more substantial than any misogynist cad can afford. The track is glossed by a glorious guitar riff that has a rampantly ragged eccentric edge, and gains momentum as she offers sardonic escapism in spades. Let's bring Cristina back into sharp focus.
Don't Mutilate My Mink
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