The latest skinny-hipped addition to the Domino indie-boy roster, Clearlake stealthily deliver another impeccably detailed portrait of provincial ennui. Any fears of schmindie-by-numbers conformity are rapidly dispelled by the dynamic arrangement: quietly-spoken, Nick Drake-esque verses rapidly explode into Sebadoh-inspired garage rock pandemonium, with pain-threshold volume, fuzz-pedal pyrotechnics and agonised vocals a go-go. To paraphrase Apocalypse Now’s Colonel Kilgore, I love the smell of Napalm Death in the morning.