The Brunettes launch into album number two proper with the jaunty casiotone intro of the title track echoing faintly, but surely, seminal Clean before setting off on a duet Cole Porter would be proud of. Indeed the (by now) trademark dialogue of the Jonathan Bree/Heather Mansfield duo is reminiscent of the Iggy/Debbie Harry take on 'Well Did You Ever?' by Porter from the Red, Hot and Blue compilation from many years ago.

That combination of bygone-era innocence and the knowing coming-of-age perspective the Brunettes employ is a trademark/framework which serves them well, and provides a distinct freedom in terms of composition and the kind of (alternate) reality their songs tend to pull the listener into and woo one with. There's more than a touch of Blondie in Heather's deadpan, and although I'm sure he's sick to death of the Jonathan Richmand comparisons, Bree's a big boy now, and, in terms of inspiration, knows which side his bread his buttered. And what a joy it is, too, to hear the promise of the earlier recordings pay off without compromise. If anything they take things even further in terms of their references to Roman gods (Mars, Venus, Cupid), Bowie ('Fa-fa-fa-fa-fashion'), Chomsky, 'Good Vibrations' and Beach Boys celery chomps, Leonard Maltin, Spice Girls, oh fuck it, there's more to a record than its agenda, its nods and winks, its (knowing) post-modern place in the pop culture lineage. It's just that with the Brunettes you tend to get the whole shebang. Great record collections that actually translate into great songs (the beautiful 'You Beautiful Militant', 'Mars Loves Venus', the Dexy's cum ABC cum, well the Brunettes, I guess, of 'Your Heart Dies'), outrageously ambitious and inventive arrangements and production, and a style, no matter how self-aware, so filled with sweet self-confidence/conceit it's irresistible even as your blood-sugar levels go through the roof.