Manchester's Ting Tings offer short burst, ready-made dance pop. Simple and irresistible. Shelf-life for which is brief. Fresh appeal lasting no longer than a month of clubbing.
As such, Shut Up and Let Me Go is beginning to grow stale. Too bad. In London I couldn't get enough of the repetitive and precise belligerence of it's garish chorus.
"I ain't freakin, I ain't fakin it" is vying for brain dead anthem of the year against "All the girls standing in the line for the bathroom" and "Kobe, tell me how my ass taste."
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