"Fly to El Salvador/I don't know why/I don't know what for" chirrup irrespressible Deptford chaps Athlete on 'El Salvador' clearly in posession of both a deathwish and surplus air miles. Like Turin Brakes with a decent drug dealer, Athlete occupy a chart-bothering centre-ground which may yet endear them to those who crave home-grown pop mavericks amongst their foreign thrills. Not yet the Sarf London Steely Dan they aspire to, Athlete none the less know their way around [a][/a]'s dog-track.
Paul Moody
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