A crash-bang-wallop-owww of a song, this White Russian Galaxy number is a quirky little thing. It is most reminiscent of those pioneers of esoterica, The Flaming Lips, especially in terms of the odd lyrics and cutesy backing vocals, although matters are souped up with a healthy dose of guitars and a lead vocal that alternates between aggressive and innocent. It is infectious, yet dark. Curious.
There are touches of R.E.M. in the oft-melancholic lyrics: maybe there is a big stadium rock band here in the middle of all these leftfield leanings just desperate to get out. This is certainly evident in the big, catchy chorus. However, this is very much out of step with the dancefloor-orientated soup of the day that has seen artists as diverse as The Killers, Scissor Sisters, Goldfrapp and Franz Ferdinand rise to prominence, and evokes rock music that hasn't got its eyes on the nightclub but on the bedroom of the tortured teen.
Not this reviewer's cup of tea, then, because he loves his dancing shoes too much, but The Crimea are are interesting prospect, and most certainly set for big things.
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