SALOON If We Meet In The Future (Track and Field)
 

Who says pop and politics don’t mix. Saloon have unwittingly made the strongest case for further European integration since Tatu hit these shores. Okay, so they’re from Reading not Russia but observe the facts. They play Kraut-rock with the influence of a certain Anglo-French band (we’ll come onto that in a minute), and have songs in Spanish (?Que Quieres?) alongside ones named after Italian volcanoes and Soviet seas (Vesuvius and, erm, Kaspian).

Not that they or anyone around them would admit to sounding anything at all like their Franglais mentors, Stereolab. Hey, it’s not as if we mean the art-installation-soundtracking, disappearing-up-their own-Moogs ‘Lab but the once mighty groop responsible for the likes of ‘Mars Audiac Quintet’. And it’s not to say that they don’t bring their own distinctive persona into the mix. Amanda Gomez’s vocal is soft and sweet throughout and, unlike Laetitia Sadier, actually comprehensible, and the backing is lusher and warmer.

‘If We Meet In The Future’ is definitely a record of two halves though. Whilst the opening five tracks are undeniably satisfying, it’s the latter half where they come into their own. Dreams Mean Nothing is so gorgeously 1anguorous and lovelorn it could break hearts from Stockholm to Sofia via Seville. Just when you think that that may be the peak, The Good Life tops it by opening and closing with a naggingly familiar keyboard prod encompassing a glorious tune between and Intimacy reveals the sound of Ladytron embracing this beautiful summer and ditching the dispassionate vocals in favour of honeyed, pastoral tones. To close, The Sound Of Thinking builds towards a pulsing climax before the non-more-Mogwai titled I Could Have Loved A Tyrant floats away on a bed of twinkling percussion and lulling strings into the deepest blue horizon.

And thus Saloon easily pass the five musical tests laid out in order to justify entry into the big league. Should we still need a referendum, I can only implore you to vote ‘Yes’.  It’s well worth losing (ten) pounds for.

Reviewed by James S
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Quite frankly the London based, high street music press piss me right off. If they’re not lambasting a more than decent artist for not fitting in with their little plans or for “selling out”, they’re brown nosing the obligatory “next big things” and hailing the progression of their “New Musical Evolution” with nothing but feverish, rag page-filling and witless hyperbole. Said “next big things” then tend to vanish from whence they came, snubbed by a music buying public sick and tired of the perpetual hype.

The latest group to have almost the entire staff of a musical publication up their bottoms sadly are Irish 70’s throwbacks “The Thrills”, in fine form here with this collection of hook laden summertime pop, “So Much For the City”. So is the hype justified?

Well yes and no. Amidst the truly superb and dare I say it, hype worthy tracks here, like the Monkees referencing and annoyingly catchy single “Big Sur”, the busy and bright “Santa Cruz”, the beautiful melancholy of “Til The Tide Creeps In” and of course, the true excellence of “One Horse Town”, lie oddly juxtaposed muzak-styleee and Travis-lite tracks that are trying, yet failing to quite go where Brian Wilson and Co once went. Or indeed surfed. Quite simply at times The Thrills are too lightweight by far and the harmonica and slide guitar throughout starts to irk and grate. Eventually, after a few listens, the album becomes one giant melting pot of The Byrds’ pop, the banjo-tainted poo of Travis, the rock-blues of Bruce Springsteen, the classic American dourness of Neil Young, and the pure and may I say wholly original genius of “Pet Sounds”-era Beach Boys. Make no mistake, when The Thrills are good, they’re very very good. But when they’re bad, like on the slide guitar fest that is “Say It Aint So” and the utterly plodding “Hollywood Kids”, they sound a little like a lightweight Americana tribute band with Fergal Sharkey’s younger brother on lead vocals.

It’s ultimately hard to look beyond the influences when listening to “So Much For The City” but, during the moments when you manage to see beyond the sun baked wake of Brian Wilson’s boys, you’ll be rewarded with a confident, highly competent and highly pleasurable, bubblegum flavoured slice of an album, only very occasionally interspersed with the odd pastiche. And yes, there’s been way, way too much hype surrounding “The Thrills” but for once the boys and girls from Kings Reach Tower SE1, may have got it at least partly right. But boy, they still piss me off.

Reviewed by Dave B
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If you’ve just arrived back from the International Space Station and are worried you missed something, this gives you the skinny on the last two years of the New York scene, where every band’s a potential Strokes and where ‘Entertainment’ or ‘Marquee Moon’ are as de rigueur to possess as a black leather jacket.  Right now New York is (seemingly) endlessly creative and here’s the proof, ranging from the established bands – The Strokes (live in Iceland), Interpol and The Rapture; the up and coming – The Rogers Sisters, Secret Machines; the seriously hip lcd soundsystem; to the just waiting to be discovered.  

If those named bands weren’t enough of a selling point, The Fever’s Ladyfingers is a crazy blend of Stiff Records crazy-pop and new wave St Vitus dancing.  Ted Leo/Pharmacists has an intense bass line, demented lyrics and an insane travelogue of the world’s worst places.   Calla’s Strangler subverts the Gene Pitney ballad form into a bubbling, brooding piece of Gotham noir while Le Tigre’s inverted disco pop, given the dfa once-over, is a itchy-footed joy.  Add to that The Rapture’s sinuous Cure-like Olio and the jerky agit-rock of Radio 4 and you’ve got more variety than the London Palladium.  You might think that it misses only the mighty Yeah Yeah Yeahs but then what’s the last track but their acoustic alter ego, Unitard, doing a slow and ballady version of Our Time entitled Year To Be Hated.   Just like the ‘No New York’ compilation became the crucial record of the last great New York scene, ‘Yes New York’ is the perfect snapshot of the city that never sleeps ‘cos it’s too busy churning out great bands.  

Reviewed by Ged M
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Raise your eyebrows (and your glasses) if you will at this clear opportunity to cash in/raise the profile of Toe-Rag studios due to its link and association with supreme retrobuff Jack White of Detroit (not E5 I reckon).  In an odd, light-hearted way this works to show there are a bunch of retroists who reject digital fancyknobwibbling for a bit of analogue grime, spit and sweat.  Quite why digital acts like a dyson to neuter and re-widget a sound is ….oh who cares, but you can hear the difference.  The fact that most of the artists on display here seem to be tuned into a wireless playing 50/60 rockpoproll might also be a factor.

The shebang starts off with a signpost that warns that we’re not in Kansas anymore when the  Ron Drand Orchestra take the stage and perform The Orbitus like a Butlins Band doing Telstar for an episode of Joe 90. Cheesy and tastey.  London Cherry and Moon Over Mankora by Teddy Paige and His New Jesters are 50’s rockpop revisited, the first being a skiffleyrockabilly thing whilst the latter has a rhumba maracas based groove.  Puddings and Pies is a spoofy John Barry hit and run number with a hint a Bonzo’s lyrical interjections like “Tapioca!” and “Sheep’s head and bacon!” Why doesn’t somebody take this goddam girl away from me? by the Scoundrelles (nice!) looks into the next decade with scuzzy guitar and a nugget of garage psychedelia. The Way I Feel About You by The Bristols sounds like it should have been on the same compilation (from a pop rather than rock angle) whilst Holly Golighty’s Ruler of My Heart (“…rubber of my soul”, ouch!) is an soul’n’b affair. Billy Childish The Friends of the Buff Medway Fanciers Association’s Nurse Julie is almost modern by comparison, with its indie rhythms and guitar.  I could go on but suffice to say that there is something beguiling about each and every one of these tracks. Don’t get excited, it ain’t a movement but in short this collection is, in spite of some differences in approach, held together by an overall feel of retro DIY-ness and exuberance – whether that can be put down to type of technology, the vibes in the Toe-Rag studios or the head honcho Liam’s brews of tea is up for debate.  Hail to the little man!

Reviewed by Kev O
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Aaron Espinoza is a producer (of this record and other bands, including The Breeders) and knows how to put together a record.  He knows how to marshal his influences (everything from John Lennon to Grandaddy), make noisy squeaks as well as beautiful melodies, and best of all, knows how to turn all the tiny details into a proper sets of songs.  The Grandaddy influence is pronounced on the album, not least because several of the lazy ol’ country-Americana tunes are co-produced by the Great-Grandaddy Jason Lytle.  But Espinoza is nothing if not a surprise merchant.  While the album kicks off with the ironical synths and string-laden lament of I’m So Happy, it’s followed by the sonic disturbance of We Drink On The Job.  That song’s Pixies-like quicksilver melodies are repeated in doublequick time on the mighty, grungeful Lost At Sea with its fuzzy vocals and fuzzier guitars, and the ultra-melodic Burning The Cow, the latter producing a piece of Elf Power-ful perfect power pop.   

But the overwhelming sensation is of dreaminess.  Hospital has a sleepy vocal laid over space noises and crashing percussion.  Dreaming Of matches sound to theme, almost evading the radar it’s so soft.  Brushes on drums, gentle strings, it sleepwalks gentle to its end.  Best of all is Lazy Feet 23; it starts at a languorous tempo and then picks up pace, taking on country tinges and orchestral touches, climaxing in gorgeous, coruscating waves of melody all relying on the power of the tune rather than the loudness of the playing.   It’s Grandaddy again, and a fair whack of Mercury Rev in the mix.  Two weeks ago, I never knew Earlimart.  Now it’s a new best friend, comfortably familiar and at the same time excitingly varied, a twist on Americana that repays every listen.

Reviewed by Ged M
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Start spreading the news….. Yep, another week, another album from the cultural epicentre that is the US’ capital of cool, New York. Who knows; maybe one of these days those tardy Strokes blokes might actually get around to doing one. In the meantime we’ll have to settle for the latest solo offering from Adam Green, one-time member of Julian, Fab and co’s support darlings, The Moldy Peaches.

Like his previous work, both solo and in a band, this has got NYC written all over it. The cover photo alone (taken by fellow friend-of-The-Strokes Amanda de Cadanet, yikes!) makes Adam look like a morphing of the two characters on the back of Lou Reed’s ‘Transformer’. Echoes of Lou can also be found in Adam’s newly rich croon and his willingness to experiment with something wholly unexpected. In this case, it’s an omnipresent string quartet – a far cry from the thrift shop, recorded-in-a-bucket guitars of the recent Moldy’s rarities album.

Somethings definitely haven’t changed though. The lyrical content style follows the blueprint laid down by Beck’s Loser – clever wordplay seeps through everywhere but it’s ultimately meaningless for the most part. Mind you, anyone who can rhyme ‘brunch’, ‘months’ and, erm, ‘cunts’ so brazenly on album opener, Bluebirds, deserves a certain respect.

The strings add a neat touch to proceedings. Forthcoming single Jessica and follow up (surely?) Friends Of Mine find a new sweet pop edge whilst Frozen In Time and I Wanna Die are subdued and sweeping in comparison. Salty Candy has a jaunty Julian Cope shuffle but the following track No Legs is the point where you either get this album or don’t; it opens with the hilariously distasteful lines “there’s no wrong way to fuck a girl with no legs, just tell her you love her as she’s crawling away.”

And therein lies the rub. Friends Of Mine is likely to polarise opinions as sharply as Big Brother’s Jon Tickle. Under appreciated genius or unfunny idiot? Whilst I wanna be a part of it; it’s up to you (New York, New York).

Reviewed by James S
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It’s a fact that not every band is original or unique (and being one or both of these is no guarantee of greatness) and that most are going to have their antecedents and reference points to other artists.  There‘s no shame in that and there’s a lot in the way a band pulls it off.  Future Kings of Spain (the album) isn’t going to win any prizes for advancement in music but it blisters and smooths along with some panache - a nod to Vines/garage in the opening lung-wrenching A place for everything, it’s Nirvana meets Smashing Pumpkins (One look), the 60’s Rolling Stones meets Smashing Pumpkins (Traps), and it offers slow, reflective tunes (Simple fact) to rock outs (Meanest sound). My favourite is Venetian blinds, a slow laconic piece, with a sliding two note bass and note picking guitar and doing the Pixie quiet/noise trick.  Overall, this is hard to dislike or rave about, if this were food it would satisfying but not nourishing.  Fancy a snack?

Reviewed by Kev O
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On these hot summer days, you need your guitars on ‘turbojangle’, your harmonies set to ‘high’ and the melody-meter at 11.  The Riders have produced a record that is perfect for a summer release, all jingle-jangle Byrds-isms and Lovin’ Spoonful lushness.  It’s the opposite of revolutionary but, then, they once declared that didn’t need one in the summertime.  Instead, it’s 46 minutes of comforting, lie back in the sun pop, a well-spoken, tidy haircut, prospective son-in-law of a record. 

Stephen Fleming filled the breach when Daniel Wylie left the band: all bar three of the songs are solely written by him, and he has a co-writer credit on two of the others.  The danger, as here, is that it sounds one-voiced and one-paced whereas before the Riders had a twin focus and dual speeds.  The songs are what you associate with the old Riders: a strong sense of melody, lots of harmonies and an Americana twang.  The single Because You is a perfect example, which jangles all the way to the chorus.  But it skirts Teenage Fanclub territory: Sunrise has the line “I need direction/with the best intention” which might be an unconscious acknowledgement of that fact.  The tracks that shine only draw attention to the relative sameness of the rest.  For A Smile has a faint country-psych tinge, smothered in bubbly organ and rich melody.  Sunrise is pure pop, with a lazy strummed feel while She’s Never Around has a rousing chorus.  Life in Wartime stands out, its post-summer storm freshness resembling The Church’s softly psychedelic tunes. 

It’s a “nice” record.  It’s not a disaster but ‘Too Close To See Far‘ doesn’t disturb the memory of the old Cosmic Rough Riders sufficiently; instead, it draws attention to what it’s not when really it could have been a new beginning.  

Reviewed by Ged M
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Pink Grease is such a great name for these face painted welders from Sheffield though musically the pink would be shocking rather than pastel and the grease would be from a three week old chip butty.  And it’s presumably part of the new direction of sold-out independents Mute who’ve ditched the moody moog-ers and caught onto ramshackle dirty bottomed Tykes like these for a six track mini-LP of rollicking good fun.   

They do rock n roll like it should be done – fast, furious and without taking itself too seriously.  Who wants to hear some covers band do Led Zep (hmm Datsuns anyone?) or New York Dolls (Jet!).  No with Pink Grease you get stomping tourette afflicted gutter glam from the off (The Nasty Show) with warbled vocals akin to Feargal Sharkey in his parka’d pomp.  The album finishes at a peak, the scuzzy single Lou Reed with what appears to be Pinky and Perky on backing vocals.  Now you know what happened to those helium guzzling porkers.  In between you get four slabs of stuff and nonsense.  More than Woman is great breakneck garage pop punk - The Clash fronted by Pete Murphy snorting on an inhaler.  The only low point, The Beast is rather piss poor crawling cod Goth…. hmm let’s move on shall we to the ridiculous but hilarious Susie, which could be an out take from Grease the movie but with a pork butcher from Macclesfield playing John Travolta and a walrus playing Olivia Newton John.  Completely out of tune but marvellous. Shake is early Killing Joke married to Devo and again off key but brilliant.  So there you have it.  Sick, silly, saucy and sensational.  That’s Pink Grease.

Reviewed by Paul M
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The third selection of current hip n happening new kids on the block from Sean McLuskey’s Sonic Mook organisation and unfortunately it’s probably one too many.  For the first time the weak outnumber the strong and with a rather too large a presence of US angular post punk funk outfits and kRaZy shouty UK sub-electroclash hod carriers, the sound can become a tad jarring.  Still like most various artist comps, all is not lost as there’s at least the odd jewel in the turd.  Openers Pink Grease mix garage rock with pantomime silliness but carry it off and Whitey’s Twoface is a great piece of electro-glam, the Human League meet the Glitter Band, with more than a hint of debt to Earl Brutus. The highlight track though is one you already have, the menacing Siouxsie-esq Machine from the world conquering Yeah Yeah Yeahs. 

Reviewed by Paul M
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Every once in a while along comes an album that puts a smile on your face, a spring in your step, and has tunes that don’t just go in one memory cell and out the other, they invite themselves in, kick off their shoes, crack open a beer, curl up on your sofa and never leave.  Motion City Soundtrack’s debut ‘I Am The Movie’ is one of those albums.  Hailing from Minneapolis, this quintet serves up insanely catchy, hook laden pop-punk about life, girls and superheroes, built around the twin guitar attack of Justin Pierre and Joshua Cain, and Jesse Johnson’s keyboards. 
 

Opener Cambridge is a powerpop gem that romps along with cool synths and terrific drumming from Tony Thaxton.  It segues into the fantastic Shiver, one of several tracks including lead single My Favorite Accident (plaintive little keyboard intro, then wallop!) that breeze along with more than a hint of Jimmy Eat World.  Indoor Living is Lit with Police-like choppy guitars in the verses, Don’t Call It A Comeback evokes Sum 41 with keyboards, and Red Dress is New Found Glory-ish emo but, inevitably, much better.  Then there’s the Weezeresque synth-pop of The Future Freaks Me Out, an ode to bewilderment at the modern world (‘What’s up with Will and Grace/I don’t get drum and bass) with a ridiculously addictive chorus.  Highlights…. ohh, the first track, the last track and everything in between.

The timing of this release is spot on; if you want uplifting, summery, emo-tinged punky pop played with bags of energy and melody, you’d go a long way to find anything better.  One for my short list of albums of the year. 

Reviewed by Graham S

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Following a two year break, those mischievious Blur-baiting Scots return with the follow-up to 2001’s “Rock Action”. Whereas the title to that album was ironic, baring in mind most of the music contained therein was almost folky in places, “Happy Songs…” is not as sarcastic a title as you’d at first expect. Compared to 99’s Come On Die Young, we have a rather uplifting album here.

The tone is immediately set by the opening track. Stuart Braithwaite has talked of “Hunted By A Freak” as being their pop song, and he has a point. Lyrics mumbled through vocoders and a haunting guitar arpeggio, in under 5 minutes, contains all the Mogwai hallmarks.  A beautiful melody, voices being used as instruments and a gradual release of tension. Not that short songs from Mogwai should come as a huge surprise, (think of Stanley Kubrick or Summer), but the fact that they’ve distilled their essence in this song and continue to do so for the rest of the album is.

“Kids Will Become Skeletons” is one of Mogwai’s most uplifting songs yet, with the noise and feedback controlled to enhance the melody rather than swamp it, and “Moses, I Amn’t” and “I Know You Are But What Am I?” integrate elements of the laptop music they admire so. Yet it is the old school Mogwai tracks that remain the most impressive tracks here. “Ratts Of The Capital” is like a shortened version of “My Father, My King” (and perhaps more effective due to its length), and “Stop Coming To My House” is the perfect album closer, providing the sweet sound of white noise so beloved of their fans.

What Mogwai have done on their fourth album is reached the point in their career where they know what works for them and what doesn’t. While “Rock Action” was an attempt to diversify, with some great songs, there was perhaps too much light and not enough shade. “Happy Songs For Happy People”, while not containing a song as amazing as “2 Rights Make 1 Wrong” or “Helicon 1”, is consistently better and perhaps the best example of the Mogwai sound yet.

Reviewed by Rob B
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As the mustily titled New Rock Revolution seems to be taking its last gasps of air (thank Christ) there is undoubtedly a musical void left. The indie-effete must have a ‘scene’ to clasp to his bosom and call his own, and ‘scenes’, as the more fashionable than fashion will tell you, operate on a double helix. One strand is happy, the other is sad, and right now playful, 3-chord anthemia is shriveling in the wake of deeply introspective, epic noodling. Enter The Mars Volta, bastard brain child of Omar and Cedric of the now disbanded neo-hardcore quintet At The Drive-In.

Whilst musing over the precise meaning of an ‘exoskeleton junction’ or deciphering the intricacies of a ‘drunkship of lanterns’, it becomes painfully obvious that ‘progressive’ need no longer be a four letter word to be uttered only behind the bike shed at the far end of the playground. De-Loused in the Comatorium is hardnosed confirmation that it is possible to have a wasted youth getting high whilst listening to 70’s prog. monsters King Crimson and then go on to do something productive with the rest of your life.

So, a concept album of Floydian proportions it may be, but Dark Side of The Moon it ain’t. There is nothing ‘nice’ about De-Loused. You’ll drool over the twelve-and-a-half-minuteness of Cicatriz Esp, but even the most hardcore of speed freaks would beg you to ease off the accelerator for a second to let them catch their breath at the end. There is no such relief. The pace may well fluctuate wildly with each and every bar between breakneck grandiosity and graceful melancholy, but the sheer scale of the record guarantees a nosebleed with each and every listen.

The über-slick sheen acquired from producer Rick Rubin is perhaps the only chink in the chainmail. Those trendy enough to have acquired the Tremulant EP when it was released last September, who then spent the subsequent months traveling vast distances to see them play tiny venues, filling out the hours by listening to scratchy live mp3s recorded in a back room toilet venue in LA, will note the extra coat of Dulux Gloss. Maybe not a bad thing, but the kind of lo-fi cheese-grater-to-eyeball style of production favoured in Camp Steve Albini (of Shellac and In Utero fame) would have ensured that last drop of aural torment for the unsuspecting listener.

Alas, true visionary breeds the inevitable downside of imitation. Six months down the line you can bet many a bottom dollar on a thousand colossal afros, the name checking of obscure Gabriel-era Genesis tracks and a sudden resurgence in the popularity of that long fabled phenomena known only as the ‘guitar solo’. It’s perhaps been best put by on loan Chili Pepper bass player Flea, understating The Mars Volta as “the best band we have ever played with, without a doubt they are scintillating. They are stunning, they blow me away.”. Get it while it’s fresh, warm and just out of the oven because half a year from now everyone will want a piece.

Reviewed by James B
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It starts like Stereolab, all drone and motorik beat, but rapidly confounds expectations by taking you down New Order-ish alleys, mixing cool ethereal rhythms with a warmer pop beat.  It’s art-pop with a gentle-psychedelic edge, sounding like the most sensitive, European-influenced thing ever to come out of Texas and all the better for it.  It kicks off with the wryly-titled Continuous Hit Music, a repetitive, throbbing rhythm in which the vocals appear three-quarters of the way through.  Come Home Baby Julie, Come Home is long, hypnotic and melodic, with half whispered vocals and the electric piano making a noise like raindrops on windows.  These songs take their time building and the effect on the listener is likewise insidious but addictive.  The closing number Modern Drummer is another long track but slow and elegant, buoyed along with vibes and strings and sounding not unlike our own Saloon.  The trick is to snaffle the listener with a slowly established groove and then take the song off in a different direction.  Hatist does this in reverse, kicking off like a chirpy New Order track in best indie pop fashion before opening up into sweet Doors-like piano trills and slinking its way to the end.  Gentle and seductive, this does more than just promise.   

Reviewed by Ged M
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Submitted as a demo, this album has now, thankfully, found a home on the US Peacework label, and a darn good thing too.  Named after a Stereolab track, Superelectric hail from Leeds and play electronic indie pop with Spiritualised as an obvious influence.  ‘Everything’s Fuzzy’ is an apt title as this effects-laden album is awash with ambient keyboards, shimmering guitars and laid back vocals.

The intro Take off sounds just like that (as long as it’s the Tardis that’s taking off) and goes without pause into Trapped behind glass; a great slow rocker with spacey effects, choppy guitars and a keyboard riff straight out of Are Friends Electric, it builds up nicely until fading out with a harpsichord-like tune.  I hear a song is probably about as close as they come to indie rock albeit with some churchy Hammond organ, the fantastic Plasmodic (sufferin on Sunday) is hypnotic, upbeat electronic dance, and Dazed and confused is a stoner conversation about George and Martha Washington set to cheesy lounge muzak .  But mostly this is an album to chill out to and just let those synths and vocals wash over you, from the Bachian neo-classicism of Peel me from the ceiling and the sunny West Coast harmonies of Step inside to the beautiful atmospheric piano ballad Hole where you belong and closing track Ballad, which starts with radio interference before turning into perfect ambient pop.

Throwing a few curve balls along the way (Dazed and confused and the Metal Mickey voiced electronica of Me Mantra), these guys have come up with a super-confident original debut of great musicianship combined with amazing programming.  Let’s hope it finds the audience it deserves.   

Reviewed by Graham S
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Four pasty faced greasy haired and black clad blokes stand in front of a wall, staring unsmilingly at the camera.  The cover says we’re a new wave band circa 1978.  You slap the disc on the CD player and the music says the same.  New York’s the Star Spangles, for it is they, are purveyors of fairly unoriginal power chords, gobby sneers and crashing drums but it’s not bad for all that.  The singles I Live For Speed and Which of the Two of Us is Gonna Burn This House Down kick off the album and are pretty enjoyable speed fuelled spittle encrusted romps.  However by the end of the third track Angela, a Generation X style singalonga punk pop effort, you’re already hoping for some variation on this three chord theme.  Obviously you don’t get it though the cornily titled Science Fiction/ Science Fact is at least cute, catchy and brief.  An album to dip into if you like your guitar pop fast and predictable but a band that rhymes ‘coca cola’ with ‘rock n roller’ shouldn’t be taken too seriously.

Reviewed by Paul M
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