The Crayon Fields makes pop that hangs around like a dense mist, opaque but ultimately diffuse. It fills the air with a glister of low-key noises: jingle bells and glockenspiels and iceberg keyboards. When the lead singer opens his mouth his voice sinks into this tide, half-submerged, and when a male chorus begins to harmonise after him, doop-she-wa-wa, in a humming retro style, then both the singers and the instruments dissolve together into the same bath of fog. The male harmonies suggest a modest reincarnation of the Beach Boys, but these are Beach Boys who have lost all interest in fast cars and surfing and have decided to examine suburbia instead. They wouldn’t shout that bossy, “Help me Rhonda!” without prefacing it with, “Excuse me.” They sing about drains and potholes and love and helicopters. I know that it’s common for reviewers to say, “This is an impressive debut,” but this one really is, and they’re a local Melbourne band so I’m proud of them.