An album that's proof more than ever that we’ve overfilled our earnest troubadour quota
[b]Larsen B[/b] apparently harbour no desire to be cool (despite being named after an iceberg). That’s good news, as people who do are generally insufferable twits in ridiculous garb. However, that doesn’t excuse the relentless insipidness of their debut, which features a ukulele ditty about cyborg love, what sounds like [a]Coldplay[/a] and [b]Mumford[/b] having a disgustingly pleasant hoedown, and an offensively dragged-out note on opener [b]‘Codeine’[/b] that’s like the black hole where sexless blandery goes to suffocate. [b]‘Musketeer’[/b] is proof more than ever that we’ve overfilled our earnest troubadour quota; licenses for banjos are the only way to stop this scourge.