The Kings seem to have all but disowned their debut album of scratchy garage rock, which is a shame, as its Ethan Johns produced charms, while rough and ready, were certainly more beguiling than their current incarnation as Bono-lite.
In fact, the signature sound of the noughties seems to have been some kind of psuedo striving for profundity provided by a single note bassline and excessive use of a delay pedal, topped with the kind of vocals which suggest big boys stole your lunch money and left you standing bereft in a corner of a primary school toilet holding a melting ice-pop.
Come on, lads. Man up.
