Review by: Morris Breadknife

Ohhh jeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeez. here we go.

An album of relentlessy happy singalong hug all yer friends and tell em how much you love ’em bopalong hopalong sing it in the shower or sing it walkin’ through a park with some cartoon birds buzzing around your head pop songs nodding heavily to the ’60s replete appropriately with handclaps and reverb and numerous utterings of “my baby” and “oh my baby” and Orbison style strumming and Wilson style vocal harmonising with all parts present and correct except there’s none of the analogue grit inherent to the limited technology of the time and no hints of the drug addled darkness that collected surreptitiously in the ’60s subconscious mind like a thousand rotting corpses in the burial pits of South Vietnam cos this wasn’t made then it was made now and jesus fuck get with the times, man, this is the noughties, man, it’s like Limp Bizkit never even happened, man.

In short, saccharine retro PUKE just like remembering when as a child you once ate a whole bag of marshmallows and spent a good few hours knelt over the bowl heaving and retching and heaving and retching until all that came out was just little bits of bile and fluff. Saccharine puke that just for a moment makes you feel like a bitter twisted arsehole for not liking it until all the pain comes flooding back and you remember about all the dead children and all the sins of the world and how dare you Redondo Beat, how dare you be so relentlessly cheery in the face of all of that.