Unedited

It's always something. Lyrics. Pop hooks. The horn section. Jangly guitars. A cute vocalist. And sometimes, it's nothing, except for the butterflies in your stomach. A connection is made. Blind love. Blind fandom.

Munich is to blame. That needle sharp riff piercing through a dancey beat, not at all ominous. Quite skipping in the mud happy actually. And Tom Smith's admonishing baritone: You speak when you're spoken to.

I wanted to dance. I wanted to be righteous. And I kinda wanted to make love, well, fuck, to the song.

It's the confusion that can only result to giddy air guitar playing at 3 a.m. and groggy mornings when the first voice you hear in your head is someone else's and it is singing I'm so glad I found this.

Brooding. Joy Division rip-off. And now Coldplay-like?

Fuck that yeh.

Editors' latest album, An End Has a Start, is knee-buckling tender at its core. Smokers Outside the Hospital Doors is a brilliant exercise of passive aggressive songwriting: tip toeing, punching through, soaring then crashing, in no particular order. It oddly feels like running through the woods.

And again, groggy mornings with this voice in my head singing Take my well-worn hands.