You can teach attitude for interviews, you can stage and tweak it expertly for photo shoots, but Little Man Tate - and particularly gobby frontman John Windle - don't leave it that long. "Don't talk to me about money, don't talk to me about fame, don't tell me about your lyrics because your songs are all the same," he chirrups intently, taking out most of his peers in one fail swoop seconds in, "you've got to understand, man I hate your band!". His uncorked belligerence is infectious, driven hard by that honest, witty northern twang previously heard rebounding off the likes of I Am Kloot, The Cribs and, yes, yes, those Arctic Monkeys. His gall at ripping apart the London A&R scene's pretentiousness on their opening three and a half minutes has surely won more friends than it might had it not been attached to such a belter of a tune. As right as he might be, he's probably not entirely immune to its criticisms. They slam into the record with such a head full of steam and testosterone that they were always bound to be winded by the end of its 11 tracks. But while it lasts it really is enormous fun. The choruses to 'European Lover' and 'Sexy In Latin', and the holler-along outro to 'House Party' are furiously sweet like a confectionary box featuring The Jam truffles, brandy snap Buzzcocks and mostly Libertines choc chip creams. Not exactly for savouring, hardly a delicacy, more just treats to chomp right down. --James Berry (Review copyright Amazon.co.uk)
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