Riding in triumphantly on a sonic sleigh, festooned with more glimmering bells and whistles than Santa’s basement pool room on his birthday; The Crookes bring in the festive season with a glorious, jubilant paean to the profound joy of Christmas spent as a child.
Etched with enough melancholy to tug even the most hardened of indie-boy heartstrings, shimmering Marr-esque guitar arpeggios slip and slide around a synthesiser motif that, if you close your eyes, really does sound like snow falling off a porch roof on the freshest of December mornings.
Singer George Waite ponders “where did the magic go?” with a plaintiveness reminiscent of Morrissey after an early-morning lovelorn drunken phone call to Tom Chaplin. It all makes for a heady concoction, like the best kind of Christmas punch – and like a well-mixed punch, it’s incredibly moreish. You’ll be wanting a top-up of You Bring The Snow, and then another, and… oh, go on then, one more for the road… wow, is *that* the time?!… oh, ONE more…
