Fortune Drive have, apparently, amassed the kind of critical support reserved for a band that sound a lot more accomplished than they actually do. Plaudits seem to shower them with the kind of untouchable glow that places them under that dubious 'next big hope for rock' banner, and dullard-induced praise not heard since, ooh, the last Rooster record surrounds this band like the cling of pissy trousers to a tramp's leg. On the strength of 'Sparkle', even such low esteem seems utterly unfounded.

Dumb, unsophisticated chord progressions chonk about like adolescent gorillas, seemingly unaware of how leaden they truly are. Not that rock music should necessarily adhere to notions of innovation and complexity, but if you're going to do the silly-fun aesthetic then you need a little more going on than thinly-veiled drug references and cod-blues warbling-cum-shrieking. Who do they think they are, Reef or something? There's little on display here to separate Fortune Drive from a terrifying middle ground between Guns 'n' Roses and Lostprophets. That's reason enough to stop making records, surely?