There’s something about listening to Pop that makes me feel a bit guilty. Like I’m in some weird Ménage à trois. There’s Independent stuff, my wife in this metaphor, the kind of music that makes you think, maybe takes a few listens to get into and sticks by your side and then there’s pop. Fun, fast and as easy to digest as a bucket of Activia it’ll get stuck between your ears but tends to give less when you’re looking for a real musical wallow. Which brings us to Southern:

Where The Wild Are is pop. No doubt about it. Just to quickly clarify here I’m not talking pop in the sense of Bieber. There’s never a time for something that awfully, horribly throwaway. What I’m talking about is, well, this. It’s clearly got musical merit. The chorus is absolutely perfect with guitars that blaze with the sound of every perfect summer and melodies that immediately send me back to my six year old self, snoozing in the sunlight on the Long ride back from Cornwall. Its might not have the same complex emotional intensity as Alt-J or the intrigue of Villagers  but right now, sat in the 7 ‘o clock British summer-time sun, it’s just about perfect.