The sound is the fruit of that expansion. Psychedelic pop remains the mother tongue, but the newcomers have brought synth pop, punk, post-punk and shoegaze along, and the record wears all of them comfortably, like hand-me-downs that turned out to fit. Guitars fuzz and smear at the edges, synths pour in like warm treacle, and a post-punk restlessness keeps the rhythm section on its toes. Beneath it all a groove holds the hips hostage while the head gets on with its brooding. Think Ride's blur, a dab of Cure-ish melancholy and a punk's disregard for tidiness, all bundled into a pop song that knows exactly where the chorus is buried. The band describe their sound as ever-morphing, and here it does, shifting shape between verses without ever losing the thread.
That thread is melody, and the band's name has always insisted on it. The hooks arrive like things discovered rather than manufactured, and they lodge behind the sternum and refuse to leave. The vocal is unshowy and sung like a confession. It never oversells the ache, which is exactly why the ache lands.
The lyric maps the treadmill of wanting: relationships, money, status, recognition, success, the whole glittering catalogue we're promised will deliver contentment by courier. "Enough" is the sound of the parcel being opened and found suspiciously light. Its subject is finally less about what we chase than about whom we chase it for, and it arrives at a quietly radical conclusion: stop living for everyone else's expectations. Coming from a band who spent their formative years finding their own voice, the point feels earned rather than borrowed.
The video makes the argument visible. It opens like an estate agent's fever dream: gleaming cars, a sprawling mansion, wealth and admiration lined up at the door like staff awaiting a new master. A lone figure stands before it all, apparently a heartbeat from everything we're taught to covet. Then the camera pulls back, slowly, like a conjuror revealing the trick, and the prize starts to look like a weight. What first reads as a coronation curdles into a portrait of exhaustion, the emptiness behind the gloss showing through the cracks. It's a neat piece of sleight of hand. The image sells you the fantasy for precisely as long as it takes to notice the price.
The pivot arrives on a caption, "And So It Goes...", delivered with the weary shrug of someone who has read the ledger. The protagonist turns and looks straight down the lens as the world of cars, marble and applause dissolves around them. The camera creeps closer until every symbol of success has been erased and only a pair of eyes remains, posing one last unnerving question: "Is It Enough Now?" It's a brave ending. A lesser production would have reached for a final blast of spectacle. This one strips everything away and dares you to answer, the cinematic equivalent of the song's own refusal to preach. That it does so as an independent production, with symbolism and restraint standing in for a blockbuster budget, only sharpens the point.
Nothing here is flawless, and thank goodness. The edges are fuzzy by design, and the influences are worn openly, like a vintage jacket someone has, against the odds, made their own. A more cautious band would have sanded the fuzz down and called the result "polish". TrixxStarr keep the roughness and gain a soul.
What remains is a single that improves on the fifth play and again on the tenth, wed to a video that turns a rhetorical question into a stare you can't quite shake. Together they prove you can make people dance and think at once, provided you don't tell them which one they're doing.
Ironically, you'll want more.