Obscenely underrated, Sheffield’s Spearmint continue to plough their lonely furrow through crafted, crystalline songs which marry the bile of Buzzcocks and the beauty of Bacharach. Wit and wordplay abound, but all sentiments are genuine as (male) singer Shirley Lee analyses post-relationship survivor guilt, the true value of worldly goods, how books match up to people and why no one likes to buy roses from those in-your-face hawkers at restaurants. Impressive in detail, this white-soul smartness climaxes in riotous applause. Rightly.
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