Wet Leg
– Wet Leg
Wet Leg crashes in like a band that doesn’t care if the party ends or explodes—as long as there’s room to dance on the table before it does. Rhian Teasdale and Hester Chambers built this thing on sharp hooks, deadpan delivery, and a total disregard for coolness as currency. Every track sounds like a smirk turned into a song, backed by a rhythm section that knows how to swagger without showing off. The album is bratty, bored, and brilliant in equal measure—like post-punk raised on memes and hangovers.
The production is tight but scruffy. Guitars jangle and slash, basslines bounce with just the right amount of dirt, and drums keep things moving like a tipsy friend trying to seem sober. But it’s the vocals that sell it—sometimes spoken, sometimes sung, always laced with sarcasm. Teasdale’s delivery flips from flat affect to a scream in the span of a verse. You get the sense she’s laughing at you and herself at the same time. There’s heartbreak buried in there, but it’s filtered through pop culture references and awkward flirting, which makes it feel even more honest.
This is a debut that doesn’t try to be deep but ends up hitting something real anyway. Wet Leg isn’t reinventing anything. They’re just tossing everything they like into the blender—’90s alt-rock, lo-fi punk, a little absurdist comedy—and pouring it out over guitar fuzz. The result is messy, fun, and surprisingly sticky. It’s the sound of two friends turning boredom into noise you actually want to hear. Again. Loudly.
Choice Tracks
Chaise Longue
Deadpan, infectious, and totally unbothered. “Excuse me?” might be the most iconic eye-roll ever put to tape. The groove is minimal, but you’re hooked from the first note. It’s indie rock reduced to its most sarcastic, danceable core.
Wet Dream
All bite and innuendo, wrapped in a surfy guitar line and passive-aggressive cheer. The vocals teeter between teasing and taunting, and it never tips its hand. Somehow sexy and silly without trying to be either.
Angelica
It’s got that hazy afternoon energy—sun-drunk and slightly bitter. The chorus explodes without warning, like someone knocking over your drink during a breakup. A perfect soundtrack for regrettable text messages.
Ur Mum
Starts with a shrug and ends with a primal scream. It’s juvenile, sure, but it hits that sweet spot between catharsis and comedy. It’s like yelling into a pillow with eyeliner running down your face.
Too Late Now
The most ambitious thing on the album. It starts like a melancholy monologue and builds into something swirling and unhinged. If Wet Leg has an existential crisis, this is it—with eyeliner, again, and possibly a hangover.
Wet Leg is sharp without being cruel, goofy without being dumb, and catchy as hell without even trying that hard. It’s a shrug that kicks like a mule. And sometimes, that’s exactly what you need.