The air of drunken, confessional humiliation is spiced with more creeping nastiness than usual...
Limited to 1,000 copies, alas, this drop-dead beauty transcends the Strap’s occasional tendency towards grumbling, stumbling self-parody and carves out something truly splendid instead. Aidan’s monologue is set to a skipping house beat and a flurry of strings, gradually amassing a genuine sense of menace and novelistic dread. The air of drunken, confessional humiliation is spiced with more creeping nastiness than usual,
with hints of terrible events occurring just out of earshot: “We’re grown men, we should
be responsible/But the fuck with that, let’s make a spectacle”.
With flashes of Tindersticks and early New Order, this is the hard stuff alright.