The Manchester-based Irish-American has clearly done her homework. This is 1980s pop architecture executed with the sort of magpie cleverness that suggests genuine affection rather than algorithmic nostalgia-mining. If Blondie provided the cheekbones, The Cars the motorik pulse, then Cyndi Lauper crashed through with the emotional honesty – all wrapped in production courtesy of Chris Pepper that's mercifully free of the usual retro-fetishist compression.

What began life on a red tenor ukulele has been transformed into something altogether more dangerous: a song that bounces along with such infectious energy you barely notice you're dancing to your own diminishment. The breathy vocals carry just enough of barDe's Irish-American roots to add texture without resorting to affectation, whilst the lyrics deploy their punches with the precision of someone who's spent considerable time cataloguing their own romantic failures.

The zebra motif – "because life (and love) are rarely black and white" – risks cuteness, but the song's emotional complexity earns it. This isn't simply about being someone's temporary fascination; it's about the exhausting performance of being palatable, the soul-wearying editing of oneself into digestible portions. "The right person will want all of you, not an edited version" runs the thesis, delivered without the usual Instagram-slogan vapidity because barDe's actually lived through the alternative.

The track pulses with defiance masquerading as pop frivolity, which places it squarely in the tradition of the best confessional songwriting – raw nerves coated in sugar, heartbreak you can dance to. The promised chorus choreography feels less like gimmickry and more like reclamation: if you're going to be reduced to a good-time girl, you might as well own the moves.

As a precursor to October's "Future Faker" and the forthcoming The Pretty Red Flag Revival, this suggests barDe has stumbled onto something worth pursuing: pop music with enough self-awareness to acknowledge its own contradictions, emotional enough to hurt, clever enough not to wallow. It's theatrical without tipping into cabaret, vulnerable without collapsing into therapy-speak.

Does it transcend its influences? Not quite – but it wears them well enough that you stop caring. For anyone who's ever been someone's "almost," barDe has written your hymn. Just don't expect it to mourn quietly.