Appropriately enough The Peacocks know they're good. There's walking the walk and talkin' the talk but this Swiss trio stalk the balk line like bulldogs dosed non-stop on pep pills, pop skills and torn-up bills. Hell, even when they were tossing off the roughshod but ramrod early recordings they knew. But this isn't the idle swagger of your average indie rock amoeba or haughty art-rock suffering recluse but the intolerant gaze of a band that have toughed it out and have the talent to wrap some witticisms and battle-weary but beat-ready scars into their tales. Belief borne out of the blues, albeit buttressed and bound to the mast with the bubonic rock ballast. For The Peacocks are a union of classic rockabilly line-up with punk attitude and personable idiosyncracies (e.g. Kind Word Don't Butter No Spuds) with pop nous without being either lightweight nor a Green Day / The Living End - which makes them a proposition wholly worthwhile bearing witness to their fans-spreading.