Let us be clear about what should not work here. Take a song built on brass-stabbed swagger and pelvic certainty, strip out the horns, bolt on a wall of Sub Pop-grade distortion, and hand the microphone to a man doing his best impression of a Memphis icon fronting a Seattle power trio. On paper it reads like the setlist of a stag do that has gone badly, gloriously wrong. On record, it is a small triumph of bad taste executed with impeccable judgement.

Bondi's finest export this season arrives wrapped in a title that does the opposite of what titles are supposed to do: it tells you exactly what you're about to get, and then spends three and a half minutes proving the label wrong in the most gorgeously roundabout way imaginable.

Orlando has never sounded less like Orlando. Across eleven tracks, @MoStFeAr constructs a private geography — humid, neon-lit, permanently after midnight — and refuses to let the listener leave it until the record's final fade. That refusal is the album's defining trick, and it's played with a conviction rare enough to make the whole project feel inevitable rather than assembled.