If the bawdy songs on Wet Leg’s 2022 self-titled debut sounded like they were conceived between bong rips, the band’s second studio album, Moisturizer, sees them getting vulnerable about matters of the heart. Singer Rhian Teasdale has “never been so deep in love,” as she proclaims on “Pond Song,” and wants everyone to know it. The romantic modes she explores throughout the album run the gamut from infatuation so intense it feels indistinguishable from “suicide” (“CPR”) to contented domesticity (“U and Me at Home”).
But while Teasdale and company may have less frivolous concerns on their minds these days, they haven’t fully grown up either. The hazy, swooning “Davina McCall” and the melancholic “11:21” sound like blueprints for a softer approach but still make room for cheeky humor: “I’ll be your Shakira/Whenever, wherever,” Teasdale cracks on the former.
Elsewhere, “Catch These Fists” is as snarky, lovably sophomoric, and provocatively incel-baiting as anything on Wet Leg—“Some guy comes up, says I’m his type/I just threw up in my mouth/When he just tried to ask me out,” Teasdale sneers—while the snotty rave-up “Pillow Talk” extols the necessity of good old-fashioned pillow-humping. These songs make the sarcastic fellatio entreaties of Wet Leg’s “Ur Mom” sound almost considerate by comparison.
And Wet Leg’s propensity for writing catchy, danceable garage-punk songs remains intact. Following their breakout success, it might have been tempting to smooth out their rough edges. But the guitars are just as raw, the hooks just as punchy, and the basslines just as thick and groovy. Synths are largely relegated to the background, coming to the fore only at a few well-timed moments, like the torrent of chirps that accents the chorus of “CPR.”
Unburdened by fancy production, Weg Leg sounds like a real live rock band playing in a room together—a vanishingly rare phenomenon in the contemporary landscape of popular music. More extraordinary is how much fun they sound like they’re having on Moisturizer. Even when addressing relatively unpleasant topics, they don’t give into cynicism: The hopped-up slashing guitars of “CPR,” the cocky strut of “Mangetout,” the coy come-ons of “Don’t Speak” are balms for a starved and weary rock ‘n’ roll soul.
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