The Rakes are ace. Truly ace. And for a nation who has shown such good judgement in making stars of Bloc Party, Franzet al, they should, indeed they must, become huge. Retreat is another wonderful piece of jittery, jumpy, punky goodness which makes the relentless monotony of routine sound like an excuse to dance like an epileptic child watching Japanese cartoons by strobe light.
Imagine Pulp if you forced Jarvis Cocker to fly a kite made of steel wool near some pylons. Or if you sold The Futureheads' barbershop, told them they couldn't harmonise anymore, and then antagonised them further by poking them with sharp sticks.
If there is any justice in the world this will be so big that they'll have to lure it down from the Empire State Building with the promise of bananas and Fay Wray in a revealing dress. Or send in the biplanes. Retreat? Hell friggin' no! Forward! All of you! Buy it! Now!
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