Putting their casual sexism and shit hair to one side for a moment, you’ve got to admire The Pigeon Detectives’ work ethic. Not a five-year coke haze between albums for this lot; a year on from their debut and it’s back to the indie coalface with their solitary idea – namely, a middle-eight so predictably shout-along you can practically smell the snakebite and sick through the speakers. It’s a small wonder they don’t release an album every week – and a blessing, too, since this plodding meat’n’potatoes grit-rocker proves them less capable of musical progression than Kerry Katona.
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