They’re puddles of sweat on hot festival stages. They’re buttons on your denim and ink under your skin. They’re cheap thrill you drink on your best friend’s roof and the moon you howl at when you’ve polished it off. They’re a hundred blown tires, a thousand broken microphones, a million chewed up cigarettes and not a single fuck given. Foxy Shazam are the brightest shade of lipstick you’ve ever worn in your life. Foxy Shazam were then and are now, back from a trip they never took. What isn’t Foxy Shazam? That’s what you think.