That's rather the point. Rave, by their own account a solo, acoustic-leaning performer for most of their career, has thrown open the studio doors and let producer Dan Weeks loose with the drum machines. The results owe a clear debt to the synth-pop Rave absorbed as a child via the family stereo — all rubbery basslines, handclaps stacked like poker chips, and choruses built for arms-aloft singalongs rather than candlelit confession. It's a costume change rather than a personality transplant: the lyrics still carry the wry, slightly wounded intelligence you'd expect from a songwriter who cut their teeth alone with a guitar in Midwestern dive bars, even as the arrangement insists on having a good time regardless.

Recorded inside a Victorian chapel turned recording studio in Ash Vale, the track carries a faint whiff of the sacred profaned, which suits the subject matter nicely — devotion curdling into disillusionment, set to music that refuses to mourn. Weeks deserves real credit here; by Rave's own admission he built much of the song's skeleton from those early guitar demos, and the production has the confidence of someone who understood the joke before it was finished being told. The energy never flags, but it's calibrated energy, bright without tipping into cartoonish pastiche, a balancing act plenty of "homage" records fail at spectacularly.

What's most impressive is how disciplined the reinvention feels. Plenty of acoustic-leaning songwriters who suddenly discover the drum machine end up burying themselves under it; Rave and Weeks instead let the hooks breathe, trusting a strong melody to carry the synths rather than the other way round. The vocal performance plays its part too — restrained where a lesser pop record would oversell the heartbreak, letting the lyric's sting land through understatement rather than histrionics. It's a quietly confident piece of singing, the sound of someone who trusts the song enough not to fight it.

The real triumph, though, is tonal. Writing a kiss-off to a former record label and making it sound like the catchiest thing on the radio is no small feat, and Rave pulls it off with real wit — the production's sunniness becomes the punchline rather than working against the lyric's darker undertow. It's a single built to soundtrack a drive with the windows down, the kind of song you hum before you've worked out what it's actually about, and only later realise you've been singing along to someone else's heartbreak with a record executive's name quietly attached. Cunning, generous, and a genuine delight — "Drive Me Crazy" suggests that Blake Rave's sonic alter ego is one well worth getting to know.