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The Magic Gang are a Brighton four-piece apparently weaned on Norman Blake’s aforementioned group, Weezer, the Beach Boys, the Beatles and the recently departed London duo Ultimate Painting. Their songs breeze along idly, their amiable guitar-playing tethered by enough craftsmanship to stop things slipping into tedious slackerdom, and enlivened by the band’s keen ear for texture: fuzz is judiciously deployed, and solos unfold with the effortless grace of a skateboarder grinding along a rail. Open chords chime with optimism; their hooky choruses are as indelible as a pier-end neon sign flashing in the night sky.
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