Foals are so good they don’t even need choruses – just a sharp cloud of bee-sting guitar orbs that whiz around your ears like ketamine-dipped houseflies. Now, on their third proper single, they’re getting saxophones involved in the precision-guided bluster. Usually the introduction of such an instrument signifies a musical cliff-leap of sorts but here it only adds to the weird Gang Of Four-in-space shebang, not once conjuring the image of Gerry Rafferty, Glen Miller or The bleedin’ Zutons. Foals, it seems, are bulking into muscle-ripped stallions. Ketamine-dipped stallions!