When I get to hell they’re going to be playing electro-swing. If you haven’t had the pleasure, this is a music genre that dropped right out of the devil’s arsehole: an unholy jazz-era pastiche of big beats and brass primarily enjoyed by twats with overly groomed moustaches, waistcoats and top hats. I would rather have needles jammed into my spine.
Scarlet Hood and the Wicked Wood opens with electro-swing. Its heroine is the lead singer in a band called *sigh* Foxtrot Bop (they all have terrible names like this) and we meet them on their way to their make or break gig. This is, to say the least, not a promising beginning. My tolerance levels for this garbage are measured in seconds rather than hours and I strongly considered tapping out right then and there.
Then a tornado whisks Scarlet Hood off to an Oz-like fantasy land and, save for a few unpleasant tootly moments on the repetitive soundtrack, the awful electro-swing band plot is abandoned.