There were no seats on the train, so he slumped down in the corridor, put on his shades, sat beside the bathroom and switched on his laptop. What was C J, trusted friend, writing about now? A smiling stranger took a toke on her fake cigarette. He knew that feeling. They were trapped in motion. He looked out of the window into the mysterious space between the cities. Rows of red roofed houses, secret lives left unknown. He remembered those horses on the beach, tripping over the sand and the tide overflowing. His arms had been bitten by insects. He started to read.
Ah, Wavves. He'd enjoyed that brat's blistering racket last year. Hyperactive, dreamily discordant songs that lodged themselves firmly inside your memory. There was a sweet insolence, so basic, it had to be true. A celebration of wasted and wasting time. A gum-chewing thesis on nothing much. 'King Of The Beach' hangs out in the rad life, with a side-order of self-doubt. Nathan Williams probably wrote these lyrics in 5 minutes, they are real narrow, we hear about how he's 'an idiot,' 'still feels stupid' and that 'my own friends hate my guts.' Business as usual. He also worships the sun, the ocean, the sand, the surf and the girl with a glazed casualness. The music's gotten cleaner, guitars crunch instead of smother, West Coast harmonies glisten like sea ghosts and there's some inviting, 80's synth textures wobbling and swirling in the mix. It's lighter, instantly attractive and he's so good with those honey-goo melodies and throwaway sentiments that the record is becoming happily addictive.
