Aiming for a slice of observational commentary on those relationship windmills and ubiquitous teenage crushes of rock’s currency, this kiss isn’t affecting or sharply ironic enough to skewer its subject matter in either way. An groove-anaemic piece of funk- rock ambition, a rhythm deficient piece of dance and a barely soulful piece of house-robbing. It’s not sonically abhorrent, just that rather than, like the best such tracks, living in your head and soundtracking those odd- internal whistling moments in supermarkets and clubs alike when you spot something reminding you of her/him, its only destination will be the 2.35 slot between the usual suspects on Radio Z.