The year is 1997. Somewhere, in the moss dappled heights of the north of England, something is stirring. Deep, inescapable nausea that exists between hyperventilation and being car-sick. There are buildings, forever etched in your dreams. Long destroyed, they stand within to loom over your future.
The Happy Soul have a curious blend of influences. At one moment soft and hushed, much like Nina Simone at her most blue, the next frantic and angular like the twin guitars of Television. Their understanding of the subversion of pop music is writ large across their back catalogue in bold, garish colours.
