Grade: B+
There’s quite a lot to dislike about Wet Leg, even aside from their stupid name. The entirety of their lyrical canon, for starters – vapid and petulant millennial inanities, 50 per cent performative braggadocio, 50 per cent adolescent carping. Or there’s the commodification of their sexualities: they’ve traded up to being bi, just before the market peaks.
Or there’s Rhian Teasdale’s frequent, bone-idle recourse to an affected, half-spoken monotone in lieu of, y’know, a tune – that shtick had begun to pall even before the end of their debut single, ‘Chaise Longue’. Or the unremitting chug chug chug of the guitars and the fact that Teasdale sings in the manner of a 16-year-old when she’s actually 32. All this and more.
Trouble is, for all that, this is a good pop album. As conventional as it gets within a power-pop framework, from the typically childish kiss-off of ‘Mangetout’ to the rather affecting paean to Davina McCall called, you will be surprised to hear, ‘Davina McCall’. ‘Catch These Fists’ is graced with crunchy power chords to alleviate the eternal chug, while ‘Don’t Speak’ begins like Paul Westerberg but develops rather cutely into being a rather beguiling piece of what – if these people were older – would be called Heartland Rock.
They even, in some of the more melodic moments, bring to mind the Cardigans (who were superior and much archer talents), although more often they recall a kind of slightly more savvy Shampoo, even if they have yet to come up with a song as irresistible as ‘Delicious’.
Still, against my better judgment, I rather enjoyed it. And isn’t it lovely to see the Isle of Wight back on the rock map?
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