Description:	Ltd purple marbled vinyl on Fruits Der Mer
	Format:	7" (vinyl)
	Genre(s):	Indie Pop
	Label:	Fruits De Mer
	Price:	£3.99
	Availability:	Sold out / currently unavailable. Sorry!

3
...according to our Clinton on 10 July 2009.

Now I know I'm out of touch. I've been away in the US for three weeks and since then have spent the remainder of the time attempting to slip back into the rut that is my normal life. So anything good happened? Anyone died? We have a new 7" record here by Flaming Gnomes on Bracken Records called 'Fruits de Mer Vol Four. From their promo photo Business Lady correctly points out that they look like they should work here at Norman Records. Phil is the guy on the left. The A side is some kind of progressive psychedelic thing complete with flute solo. The sleeve contains a warning for anyone with Aulophobia.The B side is a cover of The Zombies magnificent 'Care of Cell 44'. The original of this is a wonderful thing. Check it out on The Zombies 1968 album 'Odessey and Oracle'.

Love this record? Hate it? Tell us.

What their label says...

FLAMING GNOMES “Care Of Cell 44 (The Zombies)/ Love Song With Flute (Caravan)” limited 7” swirly-burgundy vinyl.

File under pop-sike.

Sleeve art by Jeff Cummins (Elvis Presley, Paul McCartney, Moody Blues, Elvis Costello, Rolling Stones and Nick Lowe). He must have shat himself doing this for us…


Early-doors, on the road by six, miss the traffic, sunrise, already feeling sick.
Morris Minor, Formica and fags, boot at the back, stuffed full of bags.
Summer holidays before flights were cheap, head for the coast for shutdown week.
Heading down Canterbury way, a caravan, a fairground, a week away.
Narrow lanes, hedge-lined, roads worn away. Windows down, radio play.
Pirate stations, surge and fade, AM signal like the sea we’ll wade.
Tunes like these that ebb and flow, setting the pace for dad to go.
It’s left, it’s right. Want a bet? For the hundredth time, are we nearly there yet?
Paddling, wading, throwing a ball, transistor radio sat on a towel.
Bag of crisps, shandy bass, local characters, cooking on gas.
Hissing, crashing, wave on wave, watch the tide, a secret cave.
A cell of sorts, the girl next door, burned by the sun, but wanting more.
Week flies by and back in the car, radio signals from way off far.
The last lingering tangible thing, that follows us home as we sit and sing.
Sing along to that week’s score, a telephone number for the girl next door.

 The Flaming Gnomes hark back to these times. They come from Ware in Hertfordshire. This is not near the sea.