The Creatures make a dangerous first impression. Pageant-cowboy outfits, pink trousers, bolo ties, immaculate moustaches: visually, they look as though they might be playing some elaborate joke. In an era already overloaded with knowing irony and retro affectation, the whole thing could easily have collapsed into Wes Anderson cosplay.
Within a few bars, the suspicion thankfully disappears. The surreal country-pop is too well written, too melodic and too beautifully played to be dismissed as parody. The arrangements are precise without feeling fussy, and the band delivers them with complete commitment. On more than one occasion, the songs sound as though they could have slipped naturally onto Waylon Jennings' Love of the Common People. That is not faint praise.
More importantly, the clothes and concepts are not decoration pasted onto the music. They belong to the same world. The cowboy suits, the strange stories, the Lynchian atmosphere and the echoes of Roy Orbison and The Hollies all serve the songs rather than distract from them. There is no irony hiding underneath it. No wink to the audience, no joke waiting for a punchline. The Creatures mean every bit of it. And once the songs start, the moustaches suddenly make perfect sense.
