Michael Clarke, the man who is, to all intents and purposes Clarkesville, has got a disease that we britpop veterans refer to as ‘kingmaker syndrome’. Any given |Clarkesville track is an undeniably joyous piece of well constructed throwaway pop. However, listen to more than three in a row and you’re left with an overwhelming feeling like you’ve just eaten five bars of Kendal mint cake and are about to throw up on your hiking boots. Rich, lush production brings out the best in one of the finest in the current batch of singer-songwriters, nut this is one to listen to on Virgin 1215.
In the context of the album, you’ll just end up wanting to eating yourself whole. 7.6/10