The single, now available on all digital platforms, finds the N1-based songwriter doing what he apparently does best: dragging genuinely uncomfortable subject matter onto a dancefloor and daring it to keep up. Johnny Dalston's guitar work throughout has that scratchy, live-wire quality that recalls the more sun-bleached end of garage rock without ever tipping into pastiche, while Teaboy Palmer's production keeps things lean — no reverb-drenched wallowing, no studio trickery to disguise the song's slightly seedy heart. It's a mix that trusts the hook to do the emotional heavy lifting, and the hook obliges.

Lyrically, Minor is working a well-worn seam — the morning-after, the moment clarity arrives uninvited — but he does it with a lightness of touch that stops the song from curdling into melodrama. The narrator, stumbling home and unable to tell "dark from sunny," isn't asking for sympathy so much as documenting a small catastrophe with a shrug and a half-smile. That recurring image of a watching child adds a note of unease the song never quite resolves, and wisely so; it's the kind of detail that lingers after the chorus has faded, doing more work than a dozen lines of confession ever could.

Calling this "existential indie," as Minor does, might sound like the sort of genre tag dreamt up by a press officer at 4am, but it's not far off. This is music that wants to have its cake, eat it, and then examine the crumbs for meaning. The trick — and it is a trick, deployed with real craft — is marrying a genuinely bleak lyric sheet to a tune bouncy enough for daytime radio. Plenty of songwriters have tried this balancing act and ended up with something that feels either glib or self-indulgent. Minor mostly avoids both traps, though the song's back half leans a little too hard on repetition, as if unsure whether to trust the listener to have got the message the first three times round.

Paired here with the earlier "Bureau of Change," the single continues a run that's clearly been building him a following among the blog-and-Bandcamp set, and it's easy to hear why. This isn't a record that reinvents anything — the DNA of sixties soul, new wave and pub-rock swagger is all present and correct — but it wears its influences with confidence rather than deference. Minor sounds like someone who has found his lane and is happy driving in it, moonlit and slightly reckless, one hand on the wheel.

Two and a half minutes of harm dressed as harmony. Worth the detour.