The album itself, The Indelicates' debut, is something to behold, spitting and smiling with well-directed bile and melody, at times rocking away (yes, rocking) in such a stylish manner, and America has a little bit of all that you'll find on there.

There's a guitar line that cries out in epic pop sacrilege, as grand a statement of modern fuck-youness as I've heard in a while, ballsy lyricism that I don't feel embarrassed to call "ballsy lyricism", and a chorus that shoots to the stars in typically melodious perversity. The Indelicates are a huge literary Pop glitterbomb in the industry's Easter basket. Let's hope it goes off without a hitch.

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