Weekend’s debut single All-American is this year’s most astonishing revelation: a hypnotic riff blitzed by noise from all sides, it screams from the dark with the same intensity as MBV in 1988, leans over the edge of the world and dares to jump off.
The album Sports hasn’t got a song quite as good - how could it? - but like Isn’t Anything it assaults the senses with no-wave sullenness, psychedelic insanity, Teutonic tribal rhythms and - look hard, now - some wayward tunes too. It’s some achievement and even if it doesn’t rewrite the rule book, it rips it up with delicious abandon.
God knows what they’ll do next, but they say no to life with such devastating attraction that whatever it is, like Sports, it’ll be hard to resist.