Suicide Policemen & Slide Guitars: Yuck, Yuck.

Tales of desert unions indebted to Daniel Johnston/Animal Collective memorabilia and 'freak scenes' aside, the once-seemingly scrapheap bones of Cajun Dance Party (remember, the Bombay Bicycle Club blueprint of sorts?) have been reassembled into a Dinosaur Jr.-shaped T-Rex of a record that blusters through 90s lo-fi gazing down at its shoes with its head in the watercolour clouds above. Pinpointed by the Beeb in their much lauded but ultimately redundant Sounds of Whichever Year We're Currently Situated In poll, and having conceived an eponymous debut that cajoles doubts with melancholic wafts of Weezer scruff and Sonic Youth gruff it ought to be a while before Yuck keel over, declared extinct.

Where last summer's shoegaze revival of sorts was centred around the mothball aura of ramshackle letdowns Veronica Falls, this summer ought to be awarded prematurely to the youf of Yuck, Suicide Policeman a sunset lullaby to drift off to amidst the Stone Circle, daydreaming of a rapid ascent into the upper echelons of Glastonbury within a perilous lantern doomed to comedown. Opener Get Away reeks of Big Muff fuzz, sawn in two by mellow marshmallow Fender buzzsaw guitar, sounding as beautifully 1988 as The Popguns smeared gratuitously over a Nestlé Drifter, whilst The Wall provides melancholic harmony entangled in exuberant drawl and howling whirlwind tremolo. Shook Down is Yuck's secluded Island In The Sun, an apt soundtrack to a sunrise ferry over to the clandestine decadence of the Isle of Wight, whilst Georgia joins the dots between The Wedding Present and Fleetwood Mac, stopping off for a loo break at Friday I'm In Love. Suck, cemented immobile at the heart of a quite stunning debut foray into demure slump song, bumbles along endearingly, circulated by soothing slide guitars that seep into the bloodstream like caramel oozing down a runny gullet, whilst Operation gets caught by the fuzz feasting on the bloodied carcass of Be Your Own Pet. Sunday is wondrously lackadaisical, infinitely more so than Tropicana and croissants with Lionel Richie, whilst the extensive and ultimately exhaustive drone of closer Rubber is the sound of the wheels falling off Daniel Johnston's Speeding Motorcycle in slo-mo before being smuggled into The Thermals' boot and speeding away at 60. Ubiquitous cross-reference aside (Yuck provides a rather enclyopaedic listen of all things ATP, rewording and rewiring as they roll) this quasi-mythical troupe have conjured a heart-wrenching, gut-warming record to trump Jessie J, Clare Maguire and James Blake, besides most of last year while they're at it.