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If Jet shared a white line with Oasis at a Clash concert, the furious afterparty would be the Speeds. They spit enough venom to fuel a minor revolution and drawl enough dirty in-jokes to make your mother blush, all wrapped in enough raw sleazy riffs to make Keith Richards check his copyrights. And then they turn all pop on you, all bright eyes and smiles and tales of the one that got away, that bitch.
