Largely by default, you understand. This is the worst week of singles since the Reverend Sun Myung Moon married off twenty-nine million or so of his glazed-eyed cheerleaders in one hit. This, presumably, was before he had bid them to run amok in the streets of London, waking peacefully dozing drunks on tube trains and asking if they want to help save the world. Like, F*** OFF, you freaks, if I wanted this planet saved, I`d have it kicked into a goalmouth guarded by Packie Bonner. If you get me.
Whatever, this single, co-written by thinking person`s splatter director David Lynch, is lilting and lovely and should make you want to weep diamonds. It`s one of those ones that creates a huge presence by only just being there, evocative of what Cowboy Junkies might manage if they weren`t such a hapless collection of girly wimps. Imagine Cocteau Twins only more like AC Marias. Less meshed, or something. Golf clubs with a side order of toothbrushes, waiter.