FLAP! FLAP! BANG! SQUAWK! FLUTTER! THUMP! WOOF! HANG! ROT! WHIFF! COOK! MUNCH! YUM! Odd lyrics, mind.
Those dread words – ‘Scottish’ and ‘four-piece’! Jings! But fear not. This is very good. In a sounds like a speeded-up Herman’s Hermits with evil ventriloquist’s dummy Chucky on vocals (sounding like Robin Cook on helium) sort of way. Brisk, brash, bashed-out guitar pop bollocks as ultimately as bracing as a brisk five-mile stroll across a grouse moor on a crisp March morning with the peat-scented wind in your nostrils and a fully-loaded semi-automatic 12-bore shotgun folded safely in the nook of your tweed-clad arm. FLAP! FLAP! BANG! SQUAWK! FLUTTER! THUMP! WOOF! HANG! ROT! WHIFF! COOK! MUNCH! YUM! Odd lyrics, mind. The high-pitched laddie informs us that he is [I] “AC/DC”[/I] and that he is looking for[I] “something new”[/I]. What [I]can [/I]he mean?