Most of Downes’ songwriting sounds like it was secretly calculated in the fog of a smoky bedroom, then shouted out an open window to whomever might happen to be walking by it.
With Doomsday looming, you’d think they’d be jumping through those windows instead of showing off their striking blue eyes, staring into mirrors placed the floor and cramming their instruments so close together they look like they’re about to have a cuddle party.
Fortunately for these somehow simultaneously blasé and pissed off New Zealanders, Doomsday is not a song about a geographic apocalypse. Rather, it’s an open letter to a girlfriend who hates Downe’s music and whose consoling eyes threaten to tear him in half.
I think that’s reason enough to sulk, even though the end is nigh.