Trashcan Sinatras was already a throwback when it popped up in the early '90s -- a reincarnation of the jangly, Smiths-inflected pop that had been supplanted by the psychedelic groove of the Stone Roses and the ambient barrage of My Bloody Valentine. But the group wasn't without a certain charm, always a bit out of place and a few awkward steps away from cool. Now, after years of label strife, the Scottish quintet is back. And while the cycle of retro fashion hasn't quite caught up with the act, Weightlifting sounds oddly more at home today than it would have a decade ago. While still resembling a sweater-knitting party attended by Aztec Camera and Orange Juice, the Sinatras' moody, confessional music has taken a deep breath and cozied up even closer to the listener, spilling secrets in whispers, laying rustled-leaf guitars underneath melodies that Paul McCartney hasn't dusted off since Wings. The world may never find the right time or place for Weightlifting. But that's what they call classic, isn't it?
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