Strummed acoustic guitar introduces the track alongside Miller’s wistful, slightly dreamy vocal, with accordion quietly colouring the background. From there, ‘teeth filed down’ gradually expands: bright electric guitar provides flashes of sonic glitter, while piano and light percussion slowly enter around its driving rhythm. The chorus opens up further through layered vocals, lending Miller’s indie-pop a subtle celestial glow without losing its intimacy.

That gradual build beautifully complements the song’s blossoming affection, as though those feelings are intensifying almost unnoticed. The accompanying video mirrors that progression, beginning with softly framed, near-still bedroom scenes and close-ups before introducing more movement as Miller begins to dance a little. Its dreamy pinks, reds and blues give the whole thing the feel of a romantic coming-of-age film. Warm, nostalgic and quietly lovestruck, ‘teeth filed down’ captures the way affection can creep up on you piece by piece.

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Clocking in at just 91 seconds, the track wastes little time. A distorted, propulsive bassline drives almost the entire thing, punctuated by conspicuous handclaps and, towards the end, a brief flurry of cymbals. The deliberately lo-fi production gives everything a garage-made layer of grit, while the conversational talk-sung vocal carries an increasingly fed-up, slightly confrontational edge. Minimal instrumentation once again proves more than enough for Nice Boat.

The accompanying video takes the song’s central idea very literally, beginning with the band looking thoroughly unimpressed at a party before finding boredom everywhere: behind a shop counter, in a police uniform and even beneath an Elvis quiff. Scrappy, playful and over almost as soon as it begins, ‘Everybody’s Bored’ makes its point without hanging around long enough to become part of the problem.

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An understated, lightly distorted guitar introduces Harlowe’s emotional vocal before the arrangement gradually expands around her. Acoustic and clean electric guitars add atmospheric layers, joined by a progressive drum beat and backing vocals as the track grows without losing its gentle sway. There’s a definite Fleetwood Mac quality to its soft-rock warmth, heightened by a vocal delivery that occasionally recalls Stevie Nicks. Harlowe moves between tender yearning and flashes of greater power, giving her imaginary future romance surprisingly tangible emotional weight.

There’s something inherently cinematic about yearning for a person who currently exists only as a possibility, and ‘So Pretty (It Hurts)’ has the wistful warmth of a rom-com moment before the happy ending has arrived. Rather than dwelling on loneliness, Harlowe leaves the door open for whoever might eventually walk through it. Hopeless romanticism, perhaps — but with just enough hope to make believing worthwhile.

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Bright acoustic strumming opens the track before light drums and guitar gradually fill out its breezy indie-pop sound. Yet Turner’s vocal introduces anxiety beneath the sunshine, particularly as the endlessly repeated “Who am I?” turns a catchy chorus into a genuine existential question. That overthinking spills over completely during the bridge, abandoning rhyme for a breathless stream of consciousness as her thoughts tumble out seemingly unchecked.

The retro-styled video brings that identity crisis to life inside a colourful 70s-meets-early-00s room, where Turner plays with dolls, changes outfits and performs alongside an animated version of herself, becoming increasingly frustrated as she cycles through different personas. It’s playful and deliberately nostalgic, but underneath the bright colours and infectious melody sits a much messier question. ‘Who Am I?’ doesn’t pretend to find the answer — and is more interesting for leaving it unresolved.

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A gloriously bouncy slap-and-pop bassline immediately steals attention, locking into programmed drums and gleaming retro synths for an irresistible blast of 80s-inspired funk. Killtron sounds confident and playful across an infectiously catchy chorus, while a softer middle eight briefly cools things down, allowing her vocal to shine over gentler synths and percussion. Then the beat kicks back in alongside a wickedly 80s guitar solo.

That contrast neatly mirrors the song itself: warmth and familiarity meet renewed sexual energy and spontaneity. The accompanying video doubles down on the retro swagger, with Killtron dancing and posing in a fierce royal blue trouser suit among classic cars before the action moves into the night. Funky, joyful and knowingly sexy, ‘Touch This Body’ makes keeping the spark alive sound like enormous fun.

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A straight, pounding drum beat sends the track racing forward while Rose piles on dirty distortion and chunky power chords, with a ripping guitar solo adding to the chaos. The Motörhead influence cited by the band genuinely comes through in its gritty rock ’n’ roll drive, leaving pop-punk polish firmly at the door. From behind the kit, Matilda delivers the lead vocal with a sneer, making the frustration behind the song impossible to miss.

The accompanying video keeps things equally uncomplicated, cutting between Yee Loi tearing through the track and simply goofing around together. It perfectly suits a band arguing that music shouldn’t need endless additional content to justify its existence. Raw, fast, catchy and delivered with zero fuss, ‘Social Suicide’ makes a convincing case for simply plugging in and letting the song do the talking.

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A short drum intro gives way to scratchy textures, acoustic guitar and violin before the arrangement fills out. Raw, scrappy and deliberately twitchy, ‘augusta’ carries a restless energy that draws from alt-rock, post-punk and experimental pop without settling comfortably into any one of them. FLOWERS’ slightly detached vocal is warped by distortion, lending her delivery a distinctly menacing edge. After a brief moment of near-silence, the repeated refrain bursts back in, remaining eerily unchanged as it circles obsessively towards the end.

Directed by Kian Gannon, the video pushes that paranoia further. Grainy black-and-white footage of FLOWERS pacing and twirling through imposing grounds cuts against dark colour shots of her running through back streets, while the central question repeatedly flashes across the screen. Feverish, murky and slightly unhinged, it’s a fitting introduction to FLOWERS’ unsettling new world.

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Beginning with delicate fingerpicked acoustic guitar, ‘Tourniquet’ gradually unfolds around May’s warm, breathy and quietly aching vocal. Strings begin to swell in the background before gentle percussion joins, but midway through the arrangement shifts: the fingerpicking falls away, replaced by strummed guitar and fuller percussion that give the song a greater sense of forward movement.

Eventually those two approaches come together, beautifully mirroring the emotional tension at the song’s heart. The delicacy of its opening feels rooted in longing, while the more purposeful strumming suggests acceptance beginning to take hold. Rather than presenting letting go as one clean break, ‘Tourniquet’ allows both feelings to exist at once, making for a tender and deeply affecting piece of indie-folk.

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Driving, almost tribal-like drums open the track alongside a crunchy, grungy bassline before distorted guitar arrives for the first chorus. From there, ‘We Could’ve Been Friends’ gradually brightens, introducing cleaner, jangling guitars as its catchy chorus lifts away from the darker verses. A distorted guitar solo provides one final release, reinforcing the song’s unmistakable 90s alt-rock flavour.

Greider’s vocal fits that world perfectly, balancing melodic warmth with a dry, occasionally bitter edge. Her narrative approach makes each detail feel like another piece of evidence being calmly laid out until the conclusion becomes unavoidable. There’s sadness in what could have been, but ‘We Could’ve Been Friends’ ultimately feels more cathartic than heartbroken — less about grieving the relationship than recognising exactly why it needed to end.

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Musically, Terrible Muriel keep things deliberately sparse. Simple guitar, bass and drums work together around a ploddy indie-rock rhythm, while another characteristically driving bassline provides the strongest hint of the trio’s post-punk roots. Cinta’s conversational vocal keeps everything wonderfully matter-of-fact, making declarations of being too shy to maintain eye contact feel less like anguished confessions and more like an invitation to find your fellow weirdos.

Repetition does much of the work, with thoughts of not being able to go out or go round again circling just like the rumination the song describes. Meanwhile, the repeated ‘introverted weirdo’ chorus has all the makings of a gloriously unlikely live singalong. Funny, simple and painfully relatable, it offers something every awkward soul needs occasionally: solidarity without requiring any actual social interaction.

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