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Wattmore – Canadian Whiskey 
The opening salvo comes disguised as straight-down-the-line country – pedal steel weeping, guitars twanging with the requisite Nashville polish – before the whole edifice reveals itself as a Trojan horse packed with mischief and middle fingers. Wattmore, those antipodean provocateurs masquerading as good ol' boys, have crafted something deliciously slippery: a drinking song that winks at you while pouring.

Brothers Aiden and Kai Boak operate as a two-headed hydra of contradiction: one foot planted in old-school authenticity, the other gleefully stomping through genre boundaries like a drunk through a flower bed. Aiden's multi-instrumental prowess anchors the chaos with proper musicianship – the kind earned through three years of live graft rather than bedroom laptop tinkering. Meanwhile, Kai's experimental instincts and riff-smithing provide the wild card, the punk voltage that prevents this from settling into comfortable mediocrity.


Co-written with Allan Caswell, a veteran troublemaker who presumably provided the ammunition while the brothers supplied the recklessness, "Canadian Whiskey" positions itself as aggressively pro-everybody-except-one-particular-superpower. It's geopolitical needling set to a honky-tonk shuffle, name-checking nations like a diplomatic receiving line at a very drunk embassy party. Canada! Mexico! Ukraine! The litany builds with the momentum of a bar-room toast that's gone gleefully off-script.


Lindsay Waddington's production deserves particular credit for the high-wire act performed here: making something radio-friendly from what the band themselves cheerfully describe as "racket." The track gleams with professional sheen – those Australian session players earn their cheques – yet retains enough rough edges to suggest genuine danger. You can hear Kai's strange-tuning obsessions lurking beneath the surface, while Aiden's commitment to human grooves over digital precision keeps the whole affair breathing and sweating like actual performance rather than Pro Tools perfection.


What prevents this from collapsing into mere novelty is the craft beneath the smirk. The melody lodges itself firmly between your ears, the arrangement knows precisely when to punch and when to coast, and there's genuine wit in the lyrical construction rather than simple button-pushing. The Boaks understand that the best satirical jabs come wrapped in sugar, not hurled like bricks – a lesson perhaps learned from Aiden's everyday storytelling instincts and Kai's clever songwriting chops.


The brothers continue their genre-blurring campaign with admirable bloody-mindedness, drawing equally from punk squall and country twang without genuflecting to either altar. Country purists will clutch their pearls, punk disciples will question the pedal steel, and everyone else will likely just hit repeat and reach for another round. Which is rather the point.


Brash? Certainly. Calculated? Absolutely. Effective? Pour yourself a measure and find out.