Even now, over sixteen months since its initial release, lips still pucker with ease to pipe along to the empty-headed brilliance of ‘Young Folks’. So welcome Those Dancing Days to the dancefloor, abducting a similar vein of gurning delirium as they politely introduce their heady bout of Stockholm pop.

As soon as the migraine synths settle down the act’s self-proclaimed adoration for Northern Soul seeps through to the forefront to evoke that heady summer of ’64, where everyone sat round singing Laura Greene to each other as they delved another mitt into their KFC bucket. This isn’t that summer. This is more reminiscent of ’97 sitting in the disabled parking spaces outside Somerfield working round the perils of a melting Calypso as Sixpence None The Richer blares out of a nearby Cortina.

Linnea Jönsson’s lackadaisical vocal delivery sits atop the harping track with a quilted softness rather than with the reservedly raucous soul it requires to carry it all. It isn’t that ‘Those Dancing Days’ is utter drivel, but it veers away unconvincingly. The sun may be out but this cynical bastard doesn't want to dance.