This is standard **Glasvegas fare – if you’ve heard anything the Scottish quartet have recorded so far, you’ll know the drill. Guitars, for the most part, find the right shimmering note and stick to it, while James Allan emotes in the drizzling reverb, sounding like a man trying desperately hard to make himself weep into his hops before the song’s four and a half minutes are up.
Hideously uncool, there’s nevertheless some charm about Glasvegas. Perhaps it’s the knowledge that this band can never, ever evolve – they’ve chipped away for years in Scottish bars just to open the briefest of windows to the past and they’re doomed to remain set on that course ‘til it closes, at which point they’ll either be sucked back through a vortex to the nascent suburbia of 1950s, ‘60s America or return to those Scottish karaoke bars. That the b-side's called ‘Be My Baby’ seems to condemn them to a bitter fate - if you listen closely you can hear the window softly nudging shut and the sharp chatter of the karaoke bar cutting rudely through the reverb.