I was in my last year of school when Foals first record was released. Each weekend me and my friends would scrump together all our change to buy a two litre bottle of Strongbow. Afterwards, we’d button our shirts up to the top and head down to throw some obtuse shapes at an all ages night. We were pre-sixth form kids who dreamt that college would bring the sort of sex ridden house parties that frequented the lives of Tony and Effy Stonem. We also loved Foals.Anyway, we grew up. Skins got shit quickly. As did college. Since then, I’ve had to learn about all sorts of adult junk like paying rent and cleaning up my own sick. However, whilst modern life has turned into a sinking overdraft, Foals have done the opposite. Their second record trumped the first and last month the band teased us with the excellent murky bass ridden lagoon of “Inhaler”. Now, they’ve dropped an early Christmas present in the form of “My Number”, a dancey and tropical composition, pushing the band further toward world domination.“My Number” is Foals wearing a palm tree emblazoned shirt. It’s flamboyant. It’s Talking Heads. It’s the throes of my transition into adulthood put to danceable music and it’s a brilliant stab in the face of all those that bemoan the death of guitar music. Plus, I still can’t stop thinking about how great Yannis’ beard is.
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