Southern Comfort and lemonade.
Southern Comfort and lemonade.
Oh Nelly! Where do you begin with this? Southern Comfort and Lemonade, that’s where. What do I mean by that? Well, have you ever been drunk to the point where everything somebody says seems hilarious and everybody in your near vicinity becomes the most attractive specimen of human kind ever created? Yes, you were probably a teenager, or a student, and you were probably drinking something incredibly sweet and utterly ridiculous just because you didn’t know any better. Something like Southern Comfort and Lemonade, for instance. Now then, anybody over the age of sixteen will realize that Southern Comfort and Lemonade is far too ridiculous a drink for anybody to take seriously, what with it being far too sickly and sweet to result in anything other than a horrendous hangover and a talking to the porcelain Gods session. But then again, anybody under the age of sixteen will tell you it tastes bloody lovely and it packs one hell of a punch, which is the whole point of drinking it anyway so what the hell? (We used to drink Blastaway cocktails of Diamond White and Castaway. Dear God what were we thinking?)
Walking Sleep make me feel incredibly happy, they make me want to dance around, blissfully unaware of how ridiculous I look with this bloody great big grin on my face and they make me feel like the world I live in is a bloody wonderful place. In other words, they give me that Southern Comfort and Lemonade feeling. Thankfully, they don’t induce vomiting but Walking Sleep are so summery and cheerful I suggest you apply some Factor 20 to your skin prior to listening to this because it may well give you a tan. They’re so bloody chirpy and happy, even when they’re singing about stuff that isn’t very chirpy and happy that you’ll think they may be delusional and yet the only real course of action you have is to go right along with them. Why? Because they fucking rock that’s why!
Ok, so this isn’t some riff fest, it’s more Belle and Sebastian than AC/DC, but when these guys kick up a fuss they really go for it and the punch they deliver is one hell of a right hook. Take Final Chapter, for example, which kicks off at a hundred miles an hour and then threatens to de-rail itself every few seconds. It’s a relentless, powerful pop track that will leave you short of breath and so bloody entertained you may just find yourself shouting out loud in approval, no matter where the hell you are. Even if you’re in the freezer section of the supermarket like one Incendiary editor was the other day. Ahem. The male/female vocal sparring works well for them, not least because Sara Radle reminds me of Sarah Cracknell no less, but it’s their arrangements that really shine. Head on over to Let it Go On and you’ll see what I mean. It’s so outrageous even Neil Hannon would applaud I feel. Bravo indeed.
Measures is the kind of album that could stand as a metaphor for California. Full of confidence and yet quite ridiculous at the same time it’s a sun drenched album of immense scope. Pompous and pretentious in all the ways pop music should be Measures has the power to lift your spirits, to move your feet and to make you fall in love with everyone around you. Consider yourselves warned.