Let’s lay our cards on the table. We don’t dislike Bondax, really. Bondax aren’t hurting anyone. Not really. They’re probably nice boys who clubbed together their benjamins to buy a pair of turntables – sorry, CDJs – in order to increase their chances of attracting the opposite sex because they heard a few beats and wanted to get popular. Fair play. At 17, that’s boss behaviour. Big up.

Let’s lay our other cards on the table. Kiddy UK house music with rent-a-vocal after rent-a-vocal after rent-a-fucking-meaningless- vocal from anyone who could maybe potentially, possibly hold a note if put in a live PA scenario, made for people who demand only the most flimsily fundamental thought process behind their music – that’s something Crack doesn’t fuck with. Combine it with shoddy piano breakdowns and dated effects and you have a house music record that feels like it was made by kids. Because it was made by kids.

Meanwhile back at Bondax’s house party it’s going off. Paul and Laura have just gone upstairs, the place has been trashed, half of them are wearing sunnies and Sabrina’s just dropped her first pill. It’s fucking vibes in there. You gotta start somewhere.

Thomas Frost