Pumping on Your Stereo

This one hits with a almost comic swagger — the guitar riff is thick and rubbery, stomping forward with the confidence of someone who knows exactly how ridiculous they look and doesn't care at all. There's a glam-rock ancestry audible in the bones of it: T. Rex filtered through a garage, made messier and more giddy. The rhythm section locks into a groove that's more about feel than precision, giving the whole thing a loose, physical quality. Gaz Coombes delivers the vocal with a kind of deadpan theatricality, as if narrating the scene from a slight distance while also being completely inside it. The subject is music itself — the act of blasting songs out of speakers, of letting sound take over a space, and the near-religious satisfaction that comes with it. It's self-referential without being clever-clever about it. The chorus has a buoyancy that's hard to resist. This is a song for late afternoons when you want something that doesn't ask anything of you except to turn it up — a pub jukebox song that somehow also has genuine personality.