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Album Review: Bag Raiders – Bag Raiders

Welcome to Bondi Beach, it’s summer, and there’s a flock of seagulls about to poop good luck on your forehead. Then, as your moleskin notebook burns your fingertips, and the naked thighs of the elderly burn your retinas, you realise, hang on a minute, where’s my bloody purse. Yep, you’ve guessed it. Bag Raiders have changed all your money to Euros and gone shopping in Paris for synthesizers and vocal effects.

I wonder what got robbed for the track Snake Charmer?

Probably the pouch of a bearded traveller called McTavish. Cowbell, chimes, a pungi. IT’S TOTAL GENIUS. Like the tropical idea of making Rolf Harris paint a grotesque portrait of the Queen, or even Rolfaroo and his perverted relationship with wibbly wobblies in general, because it’s so far into the next level that I’m able to travel into the future, to 2030, where a list of random reads like a newspaper.

I wish that was the case for the album’s first single Way Back Home; a cheesy summer anthem that sounds like an ode to Fred Falke and a few irrelevant Aussie bands. We’re in the past, to 2007, Kanye West has been partying with french dudes, and the whole world is going gaga over sickly electro pop, yet somehow, I don’t actually mind. We’ve asked for fun and Bag Raiders have delivered fun, in bundles, albeit via the knapsack of shit electro, but hey, we’ve got some beers, we’re on the beach, and we all want to singalong to Shooting Stars.

Just skip the other vocal tracks.

- ‘Pablo’ Moya Kettell

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