Jet: Put Your Money Where Your Mouth Is
Yes, we are going to be their girls
With the sad but predictable demise of Steve Irwin – famed annoyer of dangerous wildlife – at the poisoned tail of a stingray he didn’t see because he was probably waving his baby at it or something, and with only 12 people in Adelaide still bothered about The Datsuns or The Vines, it falls to returning mega-sellers Jet to uphold the non-lager based Australian export business. And, like a particularly screamy Primal Scream, they deliver marvellously, glamming up their trademark pub-rockage with advert-seeking, dirty country riffs, funky Beck vocals and a bass guitar trying to have filthy, wrong sex with ‘Led Zeppelin IV’. A giant, spangle-booted leap on from the blustery New Rock Revolution stodge apocalypse of 2004, three spins of it already has NME rushing out to sign up to any random mobile phone network it might recommend.
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