album review: the wombats
    • THURSDAY, APRIL 21, 2011

    • Posted by: David Pitz

    I remember The Wombats being as genuinely wonky as their namesake. As a random release that somehow made its way across my desk some four years ago, the band's self-titled EP was fairly typical in its components; queue the kind of giddy globs of dance floor-ready beats, electrifying fretwork, and melodic hooks that bands like Bloc Party, Artic Monkeys, and Franz Ferdinand all seemed to flaunt the moment the calendar struck 2000. But where the Liverpool trio truly excelled, even then, lay in singer Matthew Murphy's hopelessly self-deprecating tales of woe, primarily in the (failed) pursuit of wooing the fairer sex. Slap-ups on the dance floor, fears of starring in a real life rom-com, pathetic crushes on disastrous women; these were self-confessionals rooted in awkward, teenage fears of beautiful women. I guess some men never seem to shake such social apprehensions.

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