Nobody makes music like the Lovely Eggs make music. It both is this modish concept of twee and is about as far from it as possible, Holly Ross singing about little things in nursery rhyme rhythmic metre before getting bored, turning up the distortion pedal and shouting in her creamy Lancastrian accent. And then it turns out most of them have an underlying message anyway. Playful melodies turn into detuned hellage riffing at a moment's notice as Ross' play-sing-song voice goes from nursery rhyme to profane at similar switchover. The most sombre, slow, stadium worthy track on the album is called, and liberally and repeatedly choruses with, Fuck It. The whole thing averages out at roughly two minutes per track. It's hilarious and singular and faux-naive to the point of ridiculousness, all while simultaneously being inventive and surreal and idiosyncratic.
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