The Darlings suffer from the double whammy of appearing like a band past its prime, while making music past its prime.
With a name like the Darlings, there’s no saying this band is as Californian as shrimp tostadas. Bulked up and tattooed like the Offspring, the band brings to the saturated MySpace ether golden '90s punk that’s pummelled by dirty guitar work a la the Strokes and the odd Brian Wilson-style melodic purity. Unfortunately, with lyrics on its sophomore effort Yeah I Know seldom more sophisticated than the desire to get “fucked up in the car” with a friend with admirably skinny legs, this quartet of post-college-age amp-blasters may be found no more attractive than shrivelled-up iguanas beyond the college circuit. The Darlings suffer from the double whammy of appearing like a band past its prime, while making music past its prime. The only aspect of Yeah I Know that seems to have some artistic license is its cover, and the irony of this highly pixilated image of three Mancunian-looking lads circa 1978 with arms crossed is piercing.