With such a name, one would expect some feathery rock’n roll on the hook, and that’s what you get. It’s just like that toxic babe, the illegitimate daughter of an ant and a French Tricolore, who would wear tiny golden vinyle shorts over a moire feather top when she goes out to party. My bet: cold sweat for the trouts and takes as intenses as the dancefloor when the DJ’s drops are solid and the night’s white hot. Anyway, as the legend goes, this was one of Hemingway’s favorites, and the old bastard wasn’t exactly known to go for lame.