The best bits of the Birmingham mob’s latest cut have the pull of a star-spangled whirlpool that’ll suck you back into the late ’80s. Trouble is all the lavish arrangements in the world can’t disguise that, come the chorus, Austin Williams starts mewing like a sex phone line operator, forlornly feigning enthusiasm as she goads someone closer to a sticky climax. But hey, that’s a minor quibble, right?
Ben Hewitt