7 / 10
Remember where you heard it first, folks. 2012 isn’t about our impending doom and it certainly isn’t about some fuckers running around a track in east London. This year, it’s all about the dream-poppers of recent years growing some balls/gaining confidence (delete to your taste) and letting us hear their wistful jams. Thanks in part to the production hand of The Black Keys’ Patrick Carney, Tennis’s Motown ditties have surfaced from underneath their fuzz pedal. What we get is a rather good second album that contains some of the brightest and jolliest music you’ll have heard since the last time the world slid into the abyss.
Jamie Crossan
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