The Pale Fountains come all reshaped and reshorn, a casual toughness with eternal swoon of Michael Head’s sparkle. He can’t stop sticking his tongue and sort of starting to smile. He knows something.
In this crisper, crunchier incarnation, Head’s perfect pop sense is flyposted across a dirty rock backbeat, channelled through a melodic finery that’s always been at the heart of the Paley’s reasoning.
There’s a frightening power being shaped here, a savage bark from a couple of streets away to set your hair on end. Three months and your flesh will be in tatters.
